“Here’s the list, Anagan.”
The man with the blood-red hair woke up. When he
opened his eyes all he saw was the cold grey surface that he had made as his
bed the night before. He sat up and looked at his Estute; the small monitor
burst into life, with white flashes bouncing across the street.
Anagan was on the edge of a river, under a bridge.
The surface of the water had frozen solid and a thin, sparkling layer of ice
lay on the concrete around him. Above him he could hear the cars and trucks passing
along the bridge overhead.
He
touched the screen faintly and a small picture came up on the screen: Meredith
Mehiggins, East Street. It showed a thin-faced, well-dressed woman who clearly
did not belong to this century at all. She dressed with the elegance of lace
and bows and delicate, intricate beauty that had not been invented yet. The
paragraph below her said that she kept a record of those about town who did not
belong, there, for social purposes mostly, as a directory for secret societies
that the rich and foreign thrived on to enjoy this city.
He
wiped the snow off of his jacket and pants and briskly headed up to the road
and towards East Road.
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