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Sat up on Ashfell Rise out of the smog, above the viaduct, The Velvet Toad oozes poshness, its polished front glowing soft in the lamplight. Inside, it’s all dark wood, gilded bits and velvet cushions.
Thick drapes keep prying eyes out, while candelabras light up the whispered chitter-chatter of Harrowden’s well-off – the mill owners, the land barons, sitting smug sipping their expensive brandies. They talk about the “Mire-Dwellers”, spoken of only in disdain, the poor who live by the river, whose graft lines their pockets.
Conversation flows low and measured, each word carrying weight, who knows who might be listening…
