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Toff
A sticky heat clung to the stones of St. Crispian’s despite night having fallen. There was a sense of high summer green permeating the shadows; fully leafed trees and gardens, cut by the sound of crickets and the subdued smell of horse manure baked dry. It was a worn-out day.
In all of St. Crispian’s, Traitors Road was usually the most alive at night—men coming and going—unless one of the fancy types in Baron’s Square was having a party, then Toff would watch the carriages, the horses, the doors opening and closing onto the square. But tonight, Toff was near the top of Whereabouts Lane, just off into a little crook of road known as Magi Street, his back against a portion of the old Roman wall.