Harrington is sitting at his cherrywood table, sipping his aromatic breakfast tea. Harrington is reading his paper, checking the financials, wondering if his shipment of fine crafted goods from the Northern Reaches will come in today. The natives, they produce those trinkets for a pittance, he thinks. He makes a lot of money on those trinkets, on other similar lucrative imports. Harrington leads a comfortable life alone in his flat in southern Thames.
Harrington is checking his pocketwatch, noting the time, but he knows he is neither early nor late. He will arrive at the office precisely on schedule. He is respected, there. An entrepreneur for a new age. Harrington is as successful as successful could be.
But Harrington is a Wiltleaf. Not publicly, of course. Publicly, Harrington is a Smythe. Jones, used to be, before his Brass Polisher Service went bust, thanks to the now-infamous Tuba incident that drunks and gossips still prattled about over a pint. Harrington had grease in his ears for weeks. No, publicly, Harrington Smythe is a prominent businessman. Privately, however, Harrington Wiltleaf is certain that his family and his tribe have forgotten him, though he hasn't forgotten them. Still, every now and again, Harrington locks all his doors and windows with a twitch in his eye, pulls down the blinds, and sits in darkness muttering to himself for hours on end in what would otherwise be the most productive part of the evenings. Every now and again, Harrington Wiltleaf becomes a twittering sack of twine, nerves wound tight and fearful that his lineage will come back to haunt him someday.
Harrington picks up his overcoat from the tree and checks to see that he has his briefcase. Today, Harrington is completely calm. But today, Harrington's greatest fear is about to come true.