About this story
He arrives out of a snowstorm demanding a fire, a locked door and no questions, and snaps at every servant who wonders about the bandages beneath his hat. When the napkin slips, what should be a mouth is only more bandage. Six chapters take you from a bite that leaves no blood, through a doctor who runs from the parlour and a room where the furniture goes mad, to Whit Monday and a bandage that comes away from nothing.
How it opens
Snow drove across the Sussex road before an unexpected guest reached your door.
He carried one black case and wore enough cloth to conceal every feature.
A room with a fire, if human kindness has not frozen too.
Two sovereigns should settle the room before questions begin.
Choose
The private parlour is free, and I can light it now.
Will you require the room for more than one night?