Cecil Court was exactly what Victor had said it was and no more, which meant it was considerably more than what that description had led me to expect.
A narrow lane off St. Martin's Lane, tucked between larger streets with the particular unobtrusiveness of things that don't need to announce themselves. The shopfronts were old in the way that London's old things were old...not preserved, just persisting, the paint and wood worn to the specific honesty of something that had survived because it fit where it was and not for any more complicated reason than that.
Victor walked in front.
Not because he was leading, exactly. More because he was the one who knew where he was going and had decided that if he was going to do this he was going to do it with a posture, which required being slightly ahead of the group and maintaining a certain forward-facing quality to his expression.
I watched the back of his head and said nothing.
