Neverwhere6/10/2023 ![]() ![]() ![]() There are four simple ways for the observant to tell Mr. Ross went first, in his filthy T-shirt and his crusted blue-jeans, and Croup and Vandemar walked behind him, in their elegant black suits. But he was a canary, and he never knew it. ![]() Vandemar - and extremely grubby, and quite hairless, and he said very little, although he had made a point of telling each of them that he liked to kill things, and he was good at it and this amused Mr. Ross had no other resemblance to a canary. Vandemar nodded, comprehension dawning slowly: yes, a canary. "No, my fine friend, I was thinking metaphoncally - more along the lines of the birds they take down mines." Mr. Croup ran a hand through his lank orange hair. "I doubt it I sincerely and utterly doubt it." Mr. Croup had hired Ross at the last Floating Market, which had been held in Westminster Abbey. After four days of flight, she had found a hiding place, a tiny stone burrow, under the world, where she would be safe, or so she prayed, and at last she slept. She was hungry, and exhausted, and more tired than a body could stand, and each successive door was proving harder to open. She had been running for days now, a harum-scarum tumbling flight through passages and tunnels. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |