(No, the OTHER quagmire.)
Irina Yglesias Rigby Consuela Beauregarde (Iggy to her friends) eyed the ancient, marble courtyard closely. Nope, it was still there. She turned to the constable.
“Looks like it’s still here. I can’t fathom why you’re here?” said Iggy.
“Aye,” said the constable, that constable being Constable Grigori “Jackhammer” Pickens, renowned the county over for his mulberry and boysenberry hams, I mean, jams. But also hams. Maybe?
“Wait? You can’t fathom why you’re here either.” Iggy pulled an earlobe.
The constable pulled his beard, his own earlobe being lost in a cloud of hair. “Aye.”
They stood for a time, staring at the ancient blocks of stone. A bird sang.
The constable hummed.
There was nothing to see there.
“Ayup. There’s nothing to see here,” the constable said.
Neither of them could remember where they needed to be.