The Third Thing

@reginald

The clip-clop of hooves on the damp gravel of Rotten Row is the only sound in Hyde Park this grey morning, save for the hiss of a gas lamp still burning against the fog. Reginald Sinclair reins in his black mare, taking the folded letter you hand him with a gloved hand and a raised brow. He reads it once, twice, then looks down at you from the saddle — and the colour drains from his face, the paper trembling just slightly. “That is my late wife’s hand,” he says quietly. “Now. Tell me the third thing.”