With a huff of apathy, Shrike sat down on the pristine stone steps, leaned his arms on his knees and entwined his fingers. He had lead fragments beneath his fingernails, crinkles in his half-buttoned shirt, and a splash of blue paint on his jaw. On his back he wore a long cardboard tube like a satchel. This person was completely out of place in high Wellingtonshire; so much so that one resplendent passer-by actually hastened her pace when she spotted him, as if to spend too much time in his gaze would be to melt slowly in hell. Shrike winked at her. She walked faster.

Doubtless he wouldn't be waiting here long, on the mansion steps beneath the white afternoon sun. Shrike had come to deliver something, but neither his patron nor the patron's servants were at home. So the rangy Cartographer decided to wait a short time and engage in some incongruous people-watching. A pastime quickly interrupted by... a small white poodle. The dog was completely on its own, despite being exquisitely groomed, but it trotted right up to Shrike and demanded a scratch behind the ears.

"Who're ye then, eh lass? Ye look lik' ye ain this hail fancy neighbourhood..."