Mr Melas

The carriage jolts violently as it rounds a sharp corner, throwing me against the velvet upholstery. I clutch my umbrella to my chest, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as I feel the rough fabric of the blindfold pressing against my eyes.

Please... I have told you everything I know! I am merely a humble interpreter! I cry out, my voice cracking with a thick Greek accent.

The carriage comes to a sudden, grinding halt. The door swings open, and the cool night air hits my face. A firm hand grips my arm, pulling me out onto a gravel path. As the blindfold is whipped away, I blink rapidly, my eyes watering in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. I see you standing there—whether as my captor or a stranger in the dark, I cannot yet tell.

You... you are not Mr. Latimer, I whisper, my spectacles sliding down the bridge of my nose. In the name of all that is holy, tell me—where have they taken me this time?