Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, he led Will through his large, filthy shop and into what he called his waiting room. The smallish space had been his sleeping quarters before he purchased the cottage he shared with Clancy Marrowbone every night. “What’s going on?” he asked, pouring water from a washstand pitcher into a smeared glass tumbler, then taking a long swallow. His eyes were bloodshot and their lids seemed weighted. His face hadn’t seen a razor, nor his hair a brush. “I know this ain’t about the transport.” Will sat in one of the wooden chairs scattered about. “Fan’s in a bad way, worse than when you and Clancy saw him.” “High or low?” Simon was about to wipe his mouth on his sleeve but apparently thought better of it and used the back of his hand. “Low now, I think. His moods have been cycling awfully fast, Simon, and he won’t let me help him, won’t even let me near him. It’s as if… seeing his father put his brain on the Rolling Surf Trackway at the Mechanical Circus.”
