[center][img]http://www.worldatlas.com/webimage/flags/countrys/namerica/canada/nova.gif[/img]

[h3]Haligonia[/h3][/center]


[b]Haligonian Quarter, New York, Sylvania [/b]

Randolph Hearad leaned impatiently against the wheel of his coach-and-four. A slight drizzle, not uncommon along the Eastern Seaboard of Amerocanadia, was falling lightly upon the busy square in which he waited. Despite its lack of weight, the accumulated moisture was beginning to dampen even the inner lining of his hooded overmantle.

He would have waited inside his coach, were in not that his valet and secretary sat ordering important papers within, and had need of the extra seat for the documents. Randolph was not prepared to exercise his [i]de jure[/i] authority to recapture the seat, since his qualifications extended to ‘relations’ only. It was his secretary that dealt with the finances, and it was never any good interrupting the man mid-calculation.

Just as he was beginning to contemplate seeking rudimentary shelter beneath the coach itself, the blurred figure of Mr. Thomas, the driver, materialised through the rain amongst the multitude of anonymous Sylvanians in the square. Randolph straightened himself, brushing off some of the excess water that had pooled in the folds of his mantle.

“You took your time.” He said sarcastically. “I hope you found the man, after all this.”

Mr Thomas did not give Randolph the satisfaction of a response to the veiled insult.

“Yes, sir, indeed I did. He lives at the far end of the Haligonian Quarter, that way.” He gestured vaguely in the direction that he’d come.

“Very well, Thomas. It seems my trust in you was not [i]entirely[/i] misplaced, after all.” A small upward tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed his inner amusement. 

Parting the front of his overmantle, he revealed his ever-accompanying short cane of pine wood. With a flourish usually native only to conjurers and pickpockets, he rapped smartly upon the door of the coach-and-four.

An indignant face popped out, glaring.

“I trust this interruption means that Mr Thomas has found our quarry, Hearad?” said the face. It spoke with a slight French accent, remnant of its Acadian roots.

“Indeed, Peter. Have you managed to deal with those papers yet?” replied Randolph, coolly. He was used to Peter’s brash manner.

“Well, most of them…” the response began, but Randolph was already moving. With the crook of his cane, he pulled the door open further, almost propelling Peter, the secretary, out onto the pavement.

“Jolly good then. Stand aside, there’s a good fellow.”

Peter could only gape as his ‘superior’ stepped up into the coach, brushing the secretary aside. 

The company representative deposited himself next to his valet, Harold. The poor gentlemen had only seconds to retrieve the sheaf of papers that had been piled there a moment before.

“Presumably you [i]have[/i] memorised the route, Mr Thomas?” Randolph bellowed towards the front of the coach, causing Peter to wince in the seat opposite.

“Yes, sir.” Came the tight response.

As the driver cracked the whip to move the horses, Randolph settled back into his comfortable seat to enjoy the short journey. Rivulets of rain meandered their way lazily down the window pane, and lulled him into the warm embrace of a daydream.