droughts, little rain, the death of fishes, barrenness, Winds, Wars, or Fights. I had experienced many types of different wind, from the light and fluffy, to the heavy and strong, but never such a wind as this. It blew the heat of the day into men’s faces, drying the eyes and throat, carrying a fine mist of dust through the air. Dowling walked sullen. He hadn’t mentioned God for almost an hour, which was some relief, but I worried he saw nothing beyond the end of his nose, so sunk in misery he seemed. We headed west, away from Red Rose Lane. We spent the best part of two hours searching for Josselin, without success. I attempted to rouse the shaggy beast. ‘He’ll show up later,’ I said. ‘No doubt he has errands to run.’ ‘Who knows what he is plotting?’ Dowling replied. ‘We both know Josselin is a little mad.’ A small procession turned out of Swithin Lane ahead of us, four soldiers struggling to keep up with a tall, blond man wearing a silly hat.
