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I sipped my drink and closed my eyes. It had been an awful day, but for me, it was now over. The show was shut, the day's trading safely banked by Goss and the door secured. The Mouse Police were on patrol, or more likely reposing on their flour sacks until night came and the vermin crept out from their holes. Horatio perched on the arm of my marble chair, watching the wind tear at the branches of Trudi's linden tree. He likes winter. He loves warmth; any sort, he is not fussy, from air blowers to the full blown actual flames in a fireplace. To this he sits so close that last year he melted his whiskers on one side and had to allow a metre's clearance on the left until they grew again. I like winter too. People buy more bread than in summer, because somehow they instinctively know they need more food to keep warm. It is not pleasant to make bread when it is hot outside, because the bakery air conditioners can only do so much, and the temperature only goes down from "inferno" to "possible to survive". Winter is the season for baking.
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