Thomas' feet pounded on the cobbled street, ripped awnings and chalkboard signs whipping past him through the frigid air. This wasn't a typical storm — more like a glacial typhoon. A glow from beyond crown-glass panes caught his attention. He skidded to a halt and darted towards it, shoving open the black door and scurrying inside to the sound of a brass bell.

Across the room, a flurry of pamphlets whirled into the air. The door banged shut, and they dropped to the ground, scattering like autumn leaves. Relieved to be out of the weather, Thomas didn't pay them any mind. The shop was warm and dry.

He wiped the water from his eyes and squinted in the dim light, taking in a poky room lined with rows of old-leather spines in burgundy, green and brown. The books sat in dark-wood shelves which highlighted the building's asymmetrical dimensions. A bookstore, he realised — and an old one.

Thank goodness, he thought, relieved it wasn't a private residence — that would have been the icing on the cake. Then he saw an old man kneeling on the floor, fumbling with a heap of papers.

He hurried over, stopping himself a moment before he clashed heads with the man.

"Er, ahem."

The old man tilted his head up, blinking large, shell-like lids. A drop of water fell from Thomas' hair and plopped onto the tip of his nose. Oh, hell!

"Pardon me. I beg your ..." As Thomas spoke, the gleaming black eyes narrowed further. "Er ... please let me assist you." With drenched hands, he grasped at the pamphlets, leaving splotches and smudged ink.

An age-spotted hand darted out and slapped the back of his own.

"Ouch!" Thomas' sodden bundle fell to the floor.

"If you want to help me, you can dry off — before you ruin anything else!"

Thomas recoiled. Unsure how to react to such rudeness, he just stared.

The old man was small and thin, with a stooped back. Olive skin set off the tufts of his wispy white hair, which stood on end as if a balloon had been rubbed over it. Thick lips smacked together a couple of times, and keen eyes gazed at him.

Eventually, the old man spoke. "Don't just stand there like a fool. You're not one, are you? No, you're too well dressed to be that. But you can't judge a book by its cover. I should know. He-he-he — urgh."

While the old man coughed into his elbow, Thomas considered the khaki tweed of his overcoat. Smart and practical. He nodded his head in satisfaction.

"Shoooeess oooffff. Coooooaaat onnnn theeee peeeeeg."

Thomas flinched. The words were slow and loud, spoken like he was an idiot. Bewildered, he found himself following the instructions, as if compelled. This is belittling. Such incivility was unnecessary.

When he was finished, water still dripped from his hair, running down the nape of his neck and tickling his back. The urge to shake his head like a dog rippled through him.

The old man apparently sensed this. "No! There's a towel — through there."

The thought struck Thomas that the figure squatting on the floor in his forest-green turtleneck and brown-corduroy slacks, resembled a toad croaking out orders — not a kind comparison, but an apt one. One that dampened the fire blazing in his gut.

"Go on!"

Thomas blanched and followed the direction of the gnarled finger to a narrow doorway on his right. He leapt through it and found himself in a small, antique bathroom. A rail held a faded orange towel that appeared as old as the carpet in the entryway. He sniffed and cringed. At least that old. Shrugging, he rubbed his hair and felt an itch creep across his hands as a musty scent filled his nostrils.

When he was finished, he looked down. Not much to do for his lower half, but it would be impolite not to try. Flipping down the toilet lid, he sat and removed the sock from his left foot, squeezing it over the sink.

Away from the cranky amphibian, his thoughts drifted to the events which led him there. Lord and Lady Watermain meant well. He knew it. Unfortunately, they didn't understand him. They never had. He ought not to be surprised at their reactions.

Thomas twisted the wool, squeezing out the final drops and put the sock back on, wincing as the icy material slid over his frozen toes.

He'd done everything they wanted. Studied damned hard to get into Oxford Law, as money couldn't buy everything in this country anymore. Came top of his class too. He'd associated with the right people, and now courted one of the most eligible ladies in England. Well, he couldn't complain about that. Beatrice was a divine goddess — to gaze upon anyway.

Peeling off his right sock, he sighed and chided himself for the self-pity. Learning came to him like breathing and brought genuine satisfaction. His social status opened doors others dreamt of. And yet, at night, he wondered if anyone knew him — just regular old Thomas. Heck, even he didn't know him.

Part of the problem was no-one ever asked what he wanted. They assumed. Well, the solution was to tell them, which he had, and stick with his resolution. Perhaps then he would find out more about himself. God knew he had enough money to do it.

He bent down and squeezed the hems of his pants. Water dribbled on his wet socks. Drat, should have done that first.

Thomas recalled the concern in his mother's eyes and felt a pang of guilt. Entering the family practice was a tradition. Gentlemen did not break it. But that was nonsense. Its conception was a rejection of convention — though one that started over a century ago. Back then, the young Marquess of Watermain had moved with the times, and saved the family estates by entering the dreaded 'Trade'. Thomas had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a thorn in his side. Working at Watermain & Sons Law Firm wasn't a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity — well not for him. It was the exact opposite. When he thought about putting on his courtroom wig, he felt like someone sat on his chest. He didn't want to be a barrister, not in property acquisition at least. He didn't want conflict either, just a hiatus from responsibility.

Damn it. The chance to travel without such responsibility might be his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He stood and checked his appearance in the mirror. A chiselled face stared back. Brilliant-blue eyes under bushy brows, a long and pointed nose and a full mouth. All the men in his family were striking. He combed his fingers through his hair, and it flopped to the right. He wanted to be dull.

Overwhelmed, he had floundered on his words. Thomas winced at the memory and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he had excused himself before the heat of his growing anger overrode his usual civility. Though it was rare for him to lose his temper, when he did, it was hard to rein in — and often ended with bruised knuckles. That scared him. Self-control was his shield.

A cigarette or two — or three or four — before pudding. That had been the plan. Enough time to cool down. But once his feet hit the pavement, they didn't stop. He'd probably still be walking, if not for this dratted storm.

Thomas' socks squelched as he re-entered the room. Toad blinked up at him and grunted.

Ribbit, Thomas thought and quirked his mouth. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

Outside the rain continued, not just cats and dogs now, but antelopes and elephants as well. A bang followed the howl of the wind and Thomas jumped. He was stuck until the storm broke — but this might be serendipitous.

Leaning back on his heels, hands in pockets in an attempt to appear non-plussed, he spoke. "Ahem. Er, do you happen to have a travel section?"

Toad narrowed his eyes, and Thomas paled. "Through there, back-left corner, next to History."

Again, Thomas followed the gnarled indicator, ducking under an archway into an adjoining room with newer books. As he walked, he felt the ceiling centimetres above his head, and floorboards creaked beneath his feet. The building was old, likely Tudor age. It tasted of ingrained dust. He coughed and grimaced at the tell-tale scratch in this throat and the itchiness around his eyes. Bloody dust-mites. This place needed a good clean — and new carpet.

After a time, he found the faded gold letters on wood, lost to the vivid colours below. So many choices. He still hadn't thought about where he would go. All his mental energy had been spent on study and building the courage to speak. It was incredible he'd gotten this far.

He ran his fingers along the spines. Now the world was his oyster — a damned big one — and he had no idea where to start. He picked up a book. Australia? No, he wanted to go somewhere exotic. Perhaps to Asia? But what part? Central, South East? He skipped to 'S', pulled out a guide to the latter, and flicked through the first chapter which contained a variety of colourful images — definite potential there. Balancing it on the edge of the shelf for future consideration, he moved on. Europe? No, more of that could wait for quick escapes from the daily grind. The decision sat comfortably in his core. North America? Still not right. He craved foreign languages and customs, as well as magnificent landscapes. To become lost. One day. He tapped the book as if to assure it no insult was intended.

He continued to thumb through the volumes until he reached one titled 'South America on a Shoestring,' pulled it out and skimmed through, stopping at an image of mist-covered peaks wrapped around ancient ruins. Machu Picchu.

He inhaled. A recollection as dusty as the shop floated to the surface. Of watching a documentary as a child and begging his parents to take him. They had laughed. The French Riviera would be enough of an adventure for the summer. There had been a lingering disappointment until his father sat him on his knee and assured him when he grew up, he would be able to go himself.

Thomas slammed the pages shut, smiling as he imagined the expression on his father's face when he learned who had decided for him. Now he just needed to find the bollocks.

Photo by Hugo Kemmel on Unsplash.