August, 1884 — High Street

Don Juan had no pets and no inclination to obtain any, but a few days ago at the Broomsticks he'd gotten to chatting with one of their shopkeepers and things had seemed to be going well. He'd dropped by to pay them a visit this afternoon and things had ended up going very well; he'd gotten them alone in the storeroom for a few minutes before the ding of the front door bell had interrupted. He'd waited out the customer with the intention of picking up where they'd left off, but when his latest tryst returned they'd been put off the idea of seduction during working hours. When can I see you again, then? he pressed, and only when he had an answer did he head back to High Street with a cocky grin on his face.

He was looking back over his shoulder as he walked out, which meant he entirely missed that there was — something scuttling underfoot. Someone's pet? An escaped animal? A rat with unfortunate timing? Whatever it was, Don Juan stepped on it — and then stumbled directly into the nearest passerby.

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