Politicians love principles like foxes love henhouses.
——Arthur Hastings
When Arthur left Buckingham Palace, the sky had already darkened.
With a crack of thunder, rain began to drizzle again over London.
As his carriage drove out of the palace gates, the guards were tapping the beat for the change of shift, the wheels splashed through puddles, churning up a continuous stream of water flowers.
Arthur casually wiped a small patch of fog from the carriage window, seeing the outside avenue soaked by raindrops, the branches of the sycamore tree hanging low, with dewdrops rolling along the veins to the ground.
Rainwater slid down the window, streaking long lines across the glass.
Those water lines continuously distorted, twisting the shadows of trees, pedestrians, and streetlights, causing Arthur to click his tongue lightly in his mind.
