Lewrie (whom no one could ever call innocent, exactly, but who had yet to learn if he was to be declared guilty) was definitely one of the impressed. Daunted, in point of fact. Shuddering in dread.

And did we mention hung over?

Lewrie looked beyond the horde of gawkers and spectators who spilled off the sidewalks onto the cobbled street, who had yet no inkling of whom the coach contained… up the wide steps that were clogged with even more spectators, from nobility to pick-pockets, prostitutes and the "flash" lads, the middling sort, and the idle poor, to the grim faзade of the building. Up beyond the roof to the sky that was grey and gloomy, half coal smoke and half wintry overcast that boded even more snow later in the day, up beyond to the flagpole…

"Oh, Lord," Lewrie reiterated, squeezing his eyes shut to squint for a second, before taking a second peek at the flag. "Eyes must be going, I think," he muttered.

On January 1, the Act of Union 'twixt England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland had come into force, with twenty-eight new Lords Temporal and four Lords Spiritual seated in Parliament, along with even more Members seated in the House of Commons. The old Union Flag had gotten updated with a so-called St. Patrick's Cross superimposed upon the old St. Andrew's Cross of the new Union Flag, which made it, to Lewrie at any rate, look rather… squiffy and un-focussed.

Maybe it's just me, Lewrie thought as a coachee opened the door and folded down the metal steps; ev'rything else seems clear. Though he had to shake his head and go "Brr!" before returning his eyes to the spectators.

"There 'e is! 'At's 'im! Huzzah!" several voices cried almost together as Lewrie alit on the street cobbles, and tried to shrug into the deep folds of his heavy wool boat-cloak, and clapped on his cocked hat. "Saint Alan, the Liberator, 'imself!"