Chapter Twenty-Eight
Perry set the chamberstick down on his washstand and removed his coat and his boots. In the corner where he kept his boots was a scattering of mouse droppings. Perry pretended he hadn’t seen them. He emptied his pockets and locked the tipstaff in his trunk.
He’d left the window open. The room smelled faintly of coal smoke.
Perry leaned on the windowsill and stared out over the lane. He could see lit windows below him, candlelight leaking between crooked shutters, but the rooftops were indistinct shapes against a fathomless sky. He couldn’t even make out the chimneys. If someone sat on those roofs looking back at him, he couldn’t see them. If someone ran along that ridgeline, he’d never know.
He wished he was on a roof, wished he was running along it.
For a fleetin
