Marian introduced me to sea wormwood that morning. I put a sprig in my belt, and every so often was greeted by a lovely sage and camomile smell that complemented perfectly the salt breeze from the cove. We sat on the shingle. Marian took my arm, pulled me close and laid her head against my shoulder.
“What are we to do?” she whispered. I sighed. I could see only one way ahead, and it hurt me to my core to even consider it.
“It pains me to say this,” I began, lifting a hand to stroke a wisp of hair away from her eye, “but if he will not see reas—”
“John! John!” The shout pierced the whisper of waves and set to flight screeching gulls and piping waders. Much thumped out of the nearby trees and slid to a halt, scattering fine pebbles over Marian’s boots. “He’s at it again!” he roared, his baritone bedizened with frustration. “We can’t stop him!”
“Fucksake,” Marian cursed. “I thought I told you to watch him, Much!”
“I’ve got to have a shit sometimes!” Much clenched his fists. His eyes dared her to argue with him.
Marian raised her hands apologetically, then leaned on my shoulder to push to her feet. “Come on, buggerlugs,” she said. “Let’s go see what our intrepid leader’s up to this time.”

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