The little dog wielding maps struggled down the aisle and unrolled one of them upon a seat next to his master.
“Here, Oh Persuader,” he said, pointing at a bit of it. “The Pumbel was last seen here when cornered in a small dwelling upon what is labelled a moor.”
To have his Dark Alchemists outwitted by a Pumbel was infuriating, and Sinson-Rascalian imagined the punishments he’d administer once the dog was captured. He played with a Taper Silk sleeve, which cheered him marginally, and decided that if they passed a full-length dress mirror shop, he’d stop and get one.
He looked out the window in case they were.
They weren’t, so he peered at the map in the hope they might be labelled. “And from there he would continue north,” Sinson-Rascalian said, disappointed to find they weren’t. “He’s
