Though this was not his flat, Cyril slipped from bed and went directly to the washroom without hesitation. An early spring storm freckled the bedroom windows with rain. The smell of coffee was strong outside his nest of blankets.
In a second-story flat on the fashionable part of Baldwin Street-close enough to the river that the scent of money still perfumed the air, and close enough to the wharves for good street food and radical conversation-Cyril DePaul pulled himself from beneath a heavy duvet of moiré silk. Amberlough City, eponymous capital of the larger state, was not home to many early risers. At the beginning of the workweek, most of Amberlough’s salaryfolk crawled reluctantly from their bed-or someone else’s-and let the trolleys tow them, hungover and half asleep, to the office.
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