St. Fabian’s Feastday in the Eighth Year in the Reign of King Richard
I stood out in the freezing cold, having followed my quarry to an inn. He is within and plans to stay there till Doomsday, apparently, while I become an icicle. January has seized London with a fierce hand. The streets are bleached by snow. And my boots are are wet and cold. If that whoreson does not appear soon I will have to abandon my watch and I dislike giving in. To anything or anyone.
Sixpence a day. Is it worth losing my toes to frostbite?
God’s blood! I hate leaving a task undone. Very well, then. One more hour. One!
Of course it begins to snow again.