The rain pounded against the carriage windows, the glass blurring like a veil of mist. The carriage wheels rolled over cobblestones, emitting a wet, heavy friction sound.
Arthur leaned in the corner of the seat, his hand turning the newly purchased black ebony stick, looking absent-mindedly as he tapped the floor.
He turned his head and glanced at Richard Hoot beside him.
Hoot's coat collar was still dotted with raindrops not yet shaken off, a habit formed from years of service in the Russian Military Police — always standing upright and holding his head high, even after hours. His posture was less about sitting, more like waiting for orders in a formation.
This man, who served for many years in the Russian Military Police, has now been mingling in the Foreign Office for a year and a half, and his identity and rank have significantly changed in the eyes of outsiders.
