#samuelforester

♣ 

 Ira was woken by cold air blowing over his bare skin. The Old Cider Factory sure had always been uncomfortably drafty. But that wasn’t the only thing that triggered Ira’s ‘I should get the fuck out of here’ response: Next to him -- or rather still squished under him -- lay Sammy, looking ever so slightly too comfortable nestled into his arms. How grim. “Didn’t I tell you not to fall asleep?” he asked, not at all self-conscious to rudely wake him up with the inhibited volume of his voice.

Time: February 10th Place: Between the Parish and Saint Mary’s Church Status: Closed, for @samuelforester

Valentin could almost picture it; Alastair would turn to him, look at the cut in his hand and say: ‘I told you religion is dangerous’. Valentin would be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him smile a little.

Wrapping his handkerchief tightly around the wound the gilded relict-holder had left on him as he’d tried to polish it, he headed out. It looked like a nasty wound, but it wasn’t worth calling for Doctor Forester for it. Maybe Mrs Lancashure would know what to do. If not her, maybe-... His smile dimmed. Maybe mother’s lady’s maid can help. That was what he’d nearly allowed himself to think, wasn’t it? 

Ira was working on some extra chores, still on house arrest for his ‘prank’ -- as he’d come to call the Lady Augustine incident -- when a tiny sharp hiss had him look up from the silver he was polishing. 

“Am I a cat now or what?!” he asked, turning out to the entrance. What he found, or rather who he found, had him rise to his feet at once with surprise. It was the white nose of Samuel Forester who kept peeking in and out from behind the frame, and then there were his eyes.