the smuggler’s bible

Cremuel

Cremuel waits in the carriage smoking his pipe. The night is clearing up after a hazy afternoon and he can hear church bells ringing somewhere over the river.

“Must be communion,” he grunts and pulls a bottle out of his coat pocket. The liquor is cheap and strong. It tries to stand up for itself, but a lost cause is a lost cause. The second drink doesn’t even struggle.

Soft footsteps in the alley, then the carriage rocks gently. Weight on the step. The door opens—creaking wood, fluttering cloak.

“Tough night, boss?” Cremuel says. “Thought you wanted him alive.”