12 March 1898
The carriage pulls up to the front of the colourful house and Will has to jiggle the door handle twice before it actually clicks open. Sighing heavily, he clambers out, dragging a satchel behind him, and holds the door for Rose to do the same. Flicking the brim of his fedora with his finger, he wrinkles his nose at the shower of dust that falls from it, confirming the suspicion that if he shook his coat out he'd leave a sizeable pile of dirt behind. Occupational hazard, he thinks ruefully, glad he's trained himself not to remember that the filth coating both of them is actually the dust of centuries-old bones and blood. "After you, luv," he murmurs, shouldering the bag and gesturing for his wife to precede him.