In His Majesty’s Postal Service
Ian Thomas Healy
Copyright 2010 Ian Thomas Healy
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A distinct lack of sound jarred Dundicutt from his indulgent slumber. He blinked in surprise at the unfamiliarity of his bedroom, not often seen bathed in sunlight.
Bidgie stirred beside him. “Good morning to you, love. Why haven’t you left yet?”
“Gods alive, I’m late!” He threw off the sleeping furs and winced as his bare feet touched the cold stone floor. “The thrice-bedamned rooster never crowed.”