Six years later, Fitzjames and Crozier broach a delicate topic in the privacy of a well-heated room.

Sequel to More Fools Than Wise.

Susan and the man in black make a palaver.

Ding Rong, in his narrowed dagger-keen focus on his task, is unsure of the time when he is first made aware of Wang Zhi’s approach. He knows only by the dark of his workroom, dim-lit by his low-burned candle, that it is well into the evening. He knows only that it is no other visitor but Wang Zhi, circling into his periphery, portended by a flutter of draping fabric, because no other but Wang Zhi would dare to come unannounced.

--For 'twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood
From off my hands, here in the view of men
I will unfold some causes of your deaths.

This has all happened before, and it is happening again.

Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.

Irving gets pissed on and has the time of his life.

Old Billy Gibson has an eye for likely prospects.

Every game has a winner.

Cornelius Hickey robs graves. Wouldn't you?

Festive hotel room assignations with Fletcher and Neiman.

Wherever you go, there you are.

(Written for cygnes and the prompt: "driving for many hours through mountains.")