William T. Spears was not a sentimental man, as befit London's most recent supervisor.

He would not fall prey to the excess of emotion snow provoked in his newly assigned staff. Instead of pandering to vagrancies of fleeting emotion, William merely admired the mathematical precision with which each flake was created. There was something fitting in the way it coalesced into drifts, a sentiment in direct opposition to his current circumstance. He found it distinctly unsuitable that management be sent on routine collections.

Moonlight glittered on the beginnings of frost, an illusion broken and scattered upon contact with reality. The mysterious melded with the mundane as he regarded an unsightly mush discoloured by oil stains, and agreed with an echo from long ago. The living world was filthy.

But at least one walking the streets no longer had to dodge the stinking consequences of equinocentric society. Especially in this world of white, his beloved rock doves were far more discreet. The supervisor made another mental note to remove pigeon pie from the canteen menu.

Such ruminations kept the reaper sufficiently distracted until a scrap of paper blowing past him saw William's eyebrow twitch as he was brought back to reality, irritably extending his scythe to spear the offending article only to stop mid-step.

Carriage tracks cutting across the wide smears of mush left by modern tires was somewhat of a shock, one simply did not expect to see horseshoe divots in the snow since the widespread adoption of those wretched automobiles.

His eyes widened behind meticulously measured lenses when he realised exactly what he had caught.

William T. Spears was not a sentimental man, and did not frequently indulge in idle fantasies.

Will adjusted his glasses and wondered if the newly married Thomas Wainwright had blue eyes and blond hair.