sugarplum

Professor Holyfield stands quietly, holding the dachshund (his dachshund?) and staring up at the sugarless sugar falling like snow. He thinks of the Mountaineer, his body frozen dead-solid and black like like starless wells. He thinks of Sugarplum, the dog, his- her? dog. The spies. The ring. He remembers Berlin (had he ever been to Berlin?) and the nightly walks with Sugarplum. The sweet little thing had been at his side ever since he became a journalist (is he journalist?), his constant companion. Sugarplum had gone missing, but he'd found him, of course. Holyfield was something of a detective himself, he'd walked the paths of Wilmot's End many times before. He may not be a player in the Game, but he had worked with the Honey-Addled Detective for a few years after leaving New Newgate. It was a good thing they'd let him keep Sugarplum while incarcerated. He wouldn't have known what to do without him. Sugarplum had always been very important to him, he even used the dog's name as a cipher. Nobody would ever have guessed it. He's reminded of the Incognito Agent. He'd have to check on her. The Game never lets its players go for long, she'd be back at the chessboard soon. Maybe she'd like to visit with the dog, he was such a sweet little thing.

He looks down at the dog in his arms, at the tag carved with a delicate snowflake, and is glad. Sugarplum is safe at home again.