He sulked near the large Palladian windows, seated on an elevated perch of iridium, gazing over the luminous expanse of New York City. The Macallan Scotch and a similarly brilliant moon were his only company, save for the golden coin that hypnotically traversed the breadth of his fingers, in a mesmeric account of transient time.
The recessed lighting was sedative and warm, like the single malt perfection that scorched his chest. The hour was nearly four, though there were no attempts on the intricately carved handle of the handcrafted door. Maxwell returned his gaze toward the night and the distant motion of red and white light below.
He took a breath and inhaled the solitude. Claire was sound asleep. And though her unconscious respiratory resembled the Celtic gale, Maxwell could still hear her breathing from his perch in the outer room. This knowledge calmed his faculties and slowed the rotation of the forbidden currency.
He sat forward, placing the crystal tumbler onto the windowsill. He observed the weighted coinage and the damsel of the billowing gown surrounded by glory, torch aflame. He observed its reverse, where a bald eagle took flight, also serenaded by excellence, the country of issuance imprinted in the sky.
Maxwell continued to circulate the mythical coin in his grasp, still uncertain of why Marston Grey entrusted it to his coffers.
Implode. Part LI – DK