Andrei made his way along a crumbling roof that ran parallel to Welliver’s brine-lashed seafront. The rooftops of Welliver were very steep, and decrepit, and were it not for the multitude of horrors that stalked the narrow streets beneath their eaves they would have made a poor choice of thoroughfare. But all very present those dread legions were, so the creaking rooftops and the precarious old planks and ropes running between them presented the lesser danger.
Many of the shingles of the seafront roofs had come loose from their seats or were missing altogether, allowing the passage of rainwater and sea-spray that corrupted the supporting beams and caused the ridges to sag between the solemn stone chimneys like a miserable row of bunting. The remaining slates were heavy with moss and tufts of tall grass and hearty mats of ivy seeded by gulls, more slippery and treacherous with each passing winter. Beyond the rooftops the grey water of the harbor was thick with the barnacled masts and ragged sails of ships, all abandoned, dashed and sunk long before Andrei was born.