Trevenen awoke with his hand in something damp. He decided against opening his eyes. He was lying on his side with his vertebrae pressed against a smooth surface. He shifted his limbs. There was a rustling and something brushed the stubble on his chin. Newspaper. When he inhaled he could smell the ink. And something else: stink, but not just his own. He lifted his eyelids and blinked away the film.

Philip of Macedon was curled up at Trevenen’s knees. The man’s coat and gloves were gone and his sweater was unraveling at the neck. A taut strand of wool was caught between the rills of his chapped lips, as if he’d been munching on his collar while he slept. His face was slack, and he looked a decade younger than he deserved. There was a peaceful cadence to his breathing. Trevenen kicked him.


...

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