Russell
Damian’s wedding was proving something of a contrast to my own.
Holmes and I had wed by night, slipping like thieves into his family’s country-house chapel on a cold winter’s eve, holding our festivities with a few cherished friends while the house’s current master was away.* Appropriate, perhaps, considering the participants, but hardly boisterous.
This nuptial was halfway to riotous, a gay, tipsy crowd beneath the genial sun of a late-summer’s afternoon, with half the artists of Paris and most of the village’s residents merrily jostling
