Chapter Twenty-One
Mr Pritchard’s captivity – Mr Moon – career advice – speechless
Gruffydd awoke, spluttering and swearing. There was an overpowering stench in the air, but it was nothing compared to the foul taste in his mouth. It was acrid, oily, and seemed to coat not only his tongue, but the entirety of his mouth.
“Dr Whittaker’s Tonic!” he spat.
“It took nearly a whole bottle to rouse you,” called a man’s voice, at once both gruff and high-pitched.
Gruffydd was in a large, poorly lit space. A barn. He had grown up in a small farming village and never forgotten the smell of barns. At least it was somewhat better than a crypt. He examined his hands and wrists, which were unrestrained. Perhaps his situation was improving.
“How about a drink?” he asked.
A man stepped forward to st
