It was such a good plan, not exactly foolproof but you know, a solid, workmanlike, get-the-job-done sort of plan. It would have been nice if it hadn’t started to go wrong less then twenty minutes from when we started. The first southbound train was the very first train of the day and came in at about half five. By that time we were ready with our hazard tape and a stone that me and Nightingale had spent the previous evening imbuing with magic. We’d tried to keep the resultant vestigia as bland as possible but for some reason it smelt of coffee, stale beer and dusty curtains.
We’d dubbed it the Hangover Stone.