Gotham endured another night of cold rain. In the season when spring gave way to summer, the rain still carried the lingering chill of late spring. Before the vitality and heat of early summer could seep into it, it was frozen by the cold that had congealed over the icy flagstone streets in the darkness, turned into fine chips of ice, then evaporated into mist beneath the daylight and vanished.
Leather shoes stepped across the flagstones, splashing lightly through the water. A pair of slightly aged hands grasped the handle and pushed open the heavy doors of Wayne Manor, hanging the towel dampened by mist on the nearby rack.
Alfred held a kettle in one hand while spreading the newspaper across the round table with the other. He set the scalding kettle on the newspaper, took a cup from the cupboard, gently rinsed it with boiling water, then flung the water out the door. Steam rose from it like the muzzle smoke of a fired shotgun.
Once the cup had warmed, Alfred took a bottle of liquor from the cabinet above. The liquor flowed over the rim and into the cup; its warm walls were like human lips, teeth, throat, and tongue, releasing an aroma that was rich and heavy.
His gloved hand gripped the upper half of the cup and placed it on a tray. He took a fresh towel from the side of the cabinet and draped it over his arm, then carried the tray over to the sofa.
Bruce was sitting on the sofa, carefully reading a stack of documents. Alfred gently placed the glass before him. Without looking up, Bruce said, "Thank you, Alfred."
Alfred nodded and left. As he went upstairs, he brushed past Jason. Jason glanced back at the old butler's retreating figure, gently