Winnie tsked over the damp wool, but hung it carefully over two hooks, hoping it would dry quickly.
“It looks like we’ll be in for the day, anyway, Winnie. So don’t worry yourself too much over it.” The newspaper they’d taken with them was damp, but not unpleasantly so. Hecate opened it flat on the hall table, and was smoothing out the front page when Finn hurried in and closed the door behind him.
Winnie took his cloak and spread it to dry. The hall air was already smelling of damp fabric.
Finn wrinkled his nose. “It’s good that we managed to be indoors before the worst of it,” he said, walking up to Hecate. “So what has been going on in the Metropolis?” He glanced over her shoulder at the headlines.
And gasped. So big a gasp that Hecate turned around in concern.
Finn was white as a sheet, staring at a picture. “God…”
He staggered, almost knocking her down.
“Finn, my God, Finn…” She held him and almost dragged him into the parlour. “Winnie, get me some tea. Strong.”
“Yes’m,” answered Winnie, dashing away as Hecate helped Finn into a chair.
His colour was returning a little but he still looked as if all the devils in hell had landed in front of him.
“Finn. Talk to me. Now.”
“The paper…” he whispered. “It’s him.”
“Him who?”
“The man who tried to kill me.”
