the smuggler’s bible

Gautvin

The view of the moon over the terrace always makes Gautvin cry. He stands quietly for several minutes watching the leaves float in the fountain.

“The others will be here soon.”

“I see them. There,” Gautvin says, pointing to headlights weaving slowly down the hill in the distance. “I suppose we ought to pour the drinks.”

“I’ll start. You can wait a bit longer if you like.”

Gautvin looks up at the moon again. “Well, what else?” he says, reaching into his jacket and touching the pistol tucked under his arm where the bulge won’t show. “Except, wish me luck.”