Tobias rubbed his eyes, the sweltering heat of the shoemaking factory had stained his laced shirt with sweat and even now, at the 27th hour, the air hadn’t cooled off. Black, tar-like glue had soaked into his fingers, giving them a greasy shine. If only gollies knew that their expensive shoes were the product of brutal machinery, cheap materials and watered down glue. Maybe they did know. Maybe they just didn’t care about buying new shoes every season. Tobias couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten new shoes.
He wished he would’ve dropped by Rum Ginny before he’d come here. Oh she’d roll her eyes at him again, but he knew exactly which lopsided smile to flash for her to let him wash up in the kitchen of the rowdy inn. Instead he sat slumped against the crooked wall of the dark alley, stinking of sweat and steam and glue, with only the occasional stray cat for company. He hated how sticky his fingers still were.
Suppressing a yawn, Tobias peeked around the corner of the neighbouring street and watched for the glow of the third house on the street to extinguish, but it was still shining. Mr. Mirrenshire was, in typically golly fashion, taking his sweet time powdering his nose and doing whatever other nonsense gollies did when they prepared to go to a party.
Puffing his cheeks, Tobias leaned his head against the rough, uneven brick wall and set his gaze on the stars once more. Just when he considered giving up, he heard a badly oiled door swing open, followed by the tell-tale rattle of a keychain. Careful not to expose himself, he peeked around the corner again, just in time to see a waddling figure set off toward the city centre. Was that the infamous Mr. Mirrenshire? Some of the old-timers had made him out to be a hard bite, a villain scheming the dark and a thorn in the side of the resistance who’d sent a fair share of gunners to the gallows.
He’s just an old, fat man, Tobias scoffed inwardly. Old-timers always exaggerated their tall tales to impress the freshies. They’ll have to try harder next time.
Groaning, he got up, stretched himself, shooed a black cat away and tiptoed around the corner. The street and its colorful houses had gone dark, all curtains were drawn and aside from the vale, flickering light of the streetlamps it seemed everyone was asleep.
Quiet as a fox he made his way to number 17, scuttled up the small stone stairway leading up to the door and pulled out his pocket knife. He nearly had a heart attack when something rubbed against his legs, but it was just the black cat begging to be petted with great big eyes.
“Not now,” Tobias hissed through his teeth. The skimpy cat only half obeyed as it leapt up the wrought-steel bannister and started to rub its head against his elbow. Tobias ignored it while he fidgeted with his pocketknife in the door’s keyhole, blissfully unaware that just a few streets down the painted ladies Mr. Mirrenshire had realized with a start he’d quite forgotten to bring his favorite cigars with him. And one couldn’t in good conscience attend a seance without Brayde Country tobacco.