The Marketplace was quiet in the first glimmer of dawn, surprising him. He's figured it would be bustling all hours of the day and night, but no, he'd caught it just at the right time, where the light was grey and washed out and there were only a few people sleepily drifting back and forth, looking like they'd much rather be at home and in bed whether or not they were coming and going.
So when Max decided to do his business a little too close to the fountain, there was only a single hatchet-faced woman to give the dog and his owner a dirty look.
Cath smiled sweetly and tipped his too-floppy-to-really-tip hat at her.
* * *
Sometimes he was too old-fashioned for his own good.
The idea first entered his head in the barber's shop, as it would, and wouldn't shake him loose. So before the florid man could whip off the cape, he reached around it, and selected a particularly long lock of hair from his temple that had fallen in his lap. He wound it around his finger, paid, and left.
* * *
Greeting cards had changed since the 1920s. He skipped over the aisle of seasonal messages, them not being what he was looking for. He browsed peacefully through pretty pictures for only a few minutes before he found himself awash in cat pictures, dog pictures, distorted animal pictures, people in strange guises, and crudely drawn cartoons.
He spent a morbid half hour engrossed in what appeared to be the ongoing adventures of an elderly woman complaining about her life, friends, intimate issues, and cat to the reader, before he realized the shop assistant was giving him odd looks. He cleared his throat, grabbed something almost at random from the glittery-and-frilly section, and moved on.
* * *
There was something quite wonderful about the experience of sipping tea and browsing through books. Books from other worlds, books from futures gone by, books from Rhy'Din itself, books, books, books. Not to mention one of the sudden, sad benefits of skipping ninety years in time--Chesterton, Wharton, Forster, all his favorites had written tantalizing new books. On the other side of the coin, they would never write anything again. He selected the one he was looking for--Elizabeth Browning--and, over tea and scones and honey, started copying.
* * *
On a bedside table, in the Red Dragon Inn, he places a small card. He moves over to pet and kiss the sleeping occupant of the bed lightly on the top of his head, so as not to wake him. Then moves off. The day's only half over, and the card isn't meant to be viewed with the writer right there. So, when Mike wakes, if Cath isn't there, he'll have that.
And then he quietly exits and shuts the door behind him.
* * *
Mike--
I never gave a lock of hair away
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length and say
"Take it."
Horribly sentimental and Victorian of me, I know. But love will do that to one.
Forever yours,
Robert Martin Cath
So when Max decided to do his business a little too close to the fountain, there was only a single hatchet-faced woman to give the dog and his owner a dirty look.
Cath smiled sweetly and tipped his too-floppy-to-really-tip hat at her.
* * *
Sometimes he was too old-fashioned for his own good.
The idea first entered his head in the barber's shop, as it would, and wouldn't shake him loose. So before the florid man could whip off the cape, he reached around it, and selected a particularly long lock of hair from his temple that had fallen in his lap. He wound it around his finger, paid, and left.
* * *
Greeting cards had changed since the 1920s. He skipped over the aisle of seasonal messages, them not being what he was looking for. He browsed peacefully through pretty pictures for only a few minutes before he found himself awash in cat pictures, dog pictures, distorted animal pictures, people in strange guises, and crudely drawn cartoons.
He spent a morbid half hour engrossed in what appeared to be the ongoing adventures of an elderly woman complaining about her life, friends, intimate issues, and cat to the reader, before he realized the shop assistant was giving him odd looks. He cleared his throat, grabbed something almost at random from the glittery-and-frilly section, and moved on.
* * *
There was something quite wonderful about the experience of sipping tea and browsing through books. Books from other worlds, books from futures gone by, books from Rhy'Din itself, books, books, books. Not to mention one of the sudden, sad benefits of skipping ninety years in time--Chesterton, Wharton, Forster, all his favorites had written tantalizing new books. On the other side of the coin, they would never write anything again. He selected the one he was looking for--Elizabeth Browning--and, over tea and scones and honey, started copying.
* * *
On a bedside table, in the Red Dragon Inn, he places a small card. He moves over to pet and kiss the sleeping occupant of the bed lightly on the top of his head, so as not to wake him. Then moves off. The day's only half over, and the card isn't meant to be viewed with the writer right there. So, when Mike wakes, if Cath isn't there, he'll have that.
And then he quietly exits and shuts the door behind him.
* * *
Mike--
I never gave a lock of hair away
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length and say
"Take it."
Horribly sentimental and Victorian of me, I know. But love will do that to one.
Forever yours,
Robert Martin Cath