Even the aristocratic
members of parliament couldn't deny the Great Stink now. With the
sewer-choked Thames running almost directly under the windows, the
smell had overpowered all the precautions and preventatives they had
taken to keep it out.
As a result of several
members being knocked out by the Stink, Parliament had called a
recess, and the rich had left to pass the heights of summer in the
country.
For Ant, that just
meant fewer people buying pomanders to block out the smell, and therefore less income, even
though the same rent had to be paid to those now absent landlords.
Which was why he'd turned to mudlarking along the edge of the river
to make a few extra coins.
A ragged scarf wrapped
around his face did little more for the Stink than a lifetime of
becoming used to it. The summer sun baked his stooping back, and
turned the tidal mud splattering up his legs to dry, itchy, dirt, as
he dug his bare toes and fingers into the mud, sifting through it for
anything that might be remotely saleable. Scraps of cloth, or metal,
or wood, or pure dog-dirt that hadn't blended into the general muck
yet (the tanners paid a premium for good dog-dirt). His questing
fingers hit something smooth, and oddly cool, and he froze for a
moment to get a better sense of its location.
Once found, he
scrabbled deeper, scooping a hollow in the mud, and found a small
bottle of the sort apothecaries used. Ant grinned. Often there was a
deposit on these bottles, and if he handed it back to the right
apothecary, he'd be the one to get the coin deposit back in
his hands.
The bottle itself was
stoppered, but empty, just a bit misty on the inside with
condensation. Ant tucked it carefully into a pocket, out of sight,
and completely missed the moment when the mist sealed inside the
bottle took on the shape of a face crying "Let me out!"
