the smuggler’s bible

Loup Roger

The pencil sitting on the desktop is sharpened to a point so fine and even it blends into the soft lamplight of the den and seems to disappear. There’s a paper beside it, fresh and unlined.

“He’s dropped off the earth,” a voice purrs from the doorway. “Gone like summer rain. Anyway, it’s Pale’s problem now, and I say he’s welcome to it.”

“It’s crass to leave a mess.” Loup Roger picks up the pencil and makes a few quick strokes on the paper. “And if it’s like you say—well, when the rain is done, things begin to grow.”