He smiled in acknowledgement, though was uncertain if the fog would allow it to be seen—the unnatural cover seemed to have a way of thickening and thinning at will, almost as though it had a mind of its own. Perhaps it did; after all, it was not like any proper fog Atticus had ever known.

The two made short work of their trek across the square and, mercifully, arrived at the intended destination with little enough fuss.

"You take a seat, Miss Johnson," he directed amiably, "and I shall fetch us something hot to drink."