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Crispin, in his lichen-green coat and pale gold waistcoat, would have been flash in any company; on this street, he looked like a butterfly among moths, except that the moths here had teeth.
A gentleman, of sorts, stood in the doorway, in a tentative sort of way, like he was trying not to be there.
“It’s all waste. Some of it used to be hopes and dreams, but I pay a penny a pound, same as for any other sort.
Tredarloe’s marshlight eyes were expressive enough to get him into a pack of trouble, and Ned had felt them on him all afternoon.
And now Tredarloe was on the floor, just how Ned had been picturing him for a while now, pulling him close with a plea on his lips and need in his eyes…and all the sod wanted was a hand sorting the waste.
He lurched, and came off sideways, and found himself landing more or less on top of Crispin in a heap. It was a good thing there was an old man’s corpse strolling through the market, or somebody might have laughed at them.
Anyway, he’d learned his letters off a book of fairy tales, and if you could trust that, which you might as well after everything today, throwing magic stuff in rivers never worked for long.
