Chapter Thirteen: RoosterIn the oppressive gloom of his attic room, the only sound the constant drip of damp, the only companion the stench of rotting timbers, the man known as Rooster stooped at his table. This rotten, creaking, porous sponge that threatened to collapse at any moment, was his worktop. With a jeweller's glass fixed in his eye, he examined the mess of trinkets spread out before him. His hands were dextrous, expert at the craft, sorting out with surprising swiftness the almost worthless from the totally worthless. Every now and then he would lift a piece close to his face and scrutinise it with tender care, but almost always he would discard the piece, accompanying this with a muttered curse of despair.
He'd learned his trade from an early age on the streets. Abandoned by h
