The tavern was a noisy, dimly lit place, thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and sawdust. George Pembroke sat alone at a sticky wooden table in the corner, nursing a large mug of beer. He took a long, bitter gulp.
"Those two," he muttered to the empty chair across from him, "must be having the time of their lives right now. Consummating their marriage." The image of Delia and Eric together, as husband and wife, sent a fresh wave of jealousy and self-pity through him. He slammed his empty mug down on the table. "Another!" he called out to the barman.
