Patrick sat at breakfast in the public room of his in, trying not to think about the past due everything seemed to remind him of it. The chops and ale in front of him wear a solid replacement for the stirred eggs which had been stored, toast and kippers that he had eating yesterday. The food at the Thorne town house had been good as he remembered.
He did not want to remember. He stared fixedly at the food in front of him.
Beer for breakfast had an unapologetically masculine feel to it. It was fortifying, as well. It settled the liquor, which still sloshed in his stomach, after a drunken evening. If he meant to walk the dogs searching for an outbound shape, he would need energy. He finished the last of the meat on his plate and paid the innkeeper for the meal and another day’s lodging. A
