His feet led him down a cobblestone side street toward a shop with a faded wooden sign: The Mariner’s Trunk . Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cedar. An old man behind the counter looked up from a newspaper. "I'm looking for a duffle," Arthur said.
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The morning air in Edinburgh didn’t just bite; it gnawed. Arthur pulled his thin blazer tighter, but the wind off the Firth of Forth treated the wool like lace. He needed a duffle coat. Not a modern imitation, but the kind of heavy, toggle-fastened armor that could withstand a North Sea gale. His feet led him down a cobblestone side