16th January, 1893 — London
Howell generally had better things to do than make deliveries from the Glen, but once in a while something went awry with the usual lad, and he was called in to clear up the mess.
Not that the near tonne of dragon dung that was now heaped up on this person’s property was his mess to be cleaning up. It had been packed and transported and delivered here in sealed, smell-proof and magically-enlarged sacks as promised, which had been all well and good until one had been haphazardly opened by the recipient – and the manure had overflowed out, all lava-like.
And they “hadn’t ordered it” in the first place.
(So they said.)
“Howell, from the Glen,” Howell said, already less-than-enthused from the journey here. “Apparently there’s a problem?”
Not that the near tonne of dragon dung that was now heaped up on this person’s property was his mess to be cleaning up. It had been packed and transported and delivered here in sealed, smell-proof and magically-enlarged sacks as promised, which had been all well and good until one had been haphazardly opened by the recipient – and the manure had overflowed out, all lava-like.
And they “hadn’t ordered it” in the first place.
(So they said.)
“Howell, from the Glen,” Howell said, already less-than-enthused from the journey here. “Apparently there’s a problem?”
