There were things Dex was good at and things he wasn’t. He was a bruising rider, but an indifferent boxer. He was a competent swordsman, but his marksmanship was nothing to boast about. He’d never been one for book learning, but he did enjoy drawing—not painstaking sketches where everything was picturesque and precise, but quickly dashed-off caricatures where noses were too big and legs too skinny. The sorts of drawings that made people laugh.
His letters to his sister Phoebe had always been more pictures than words and his latest epistle was no exception. Dearest Fleabee, he’d written at the top of a sheet of hot-pressed paper, herewith an account of my EPIC BATTLE on Wimbledon Heath. The rest of the letter was a pictorial rendition of his encounter with the highwaymen, each scene inside
