I tried to write a part of "A Discovery of Witches" by Deborah Harkness focussing on Matthew, not Diana.
Shadowed by the October fog, a dark figure leaned back on his heels, but was otherwise motionless, oblivious to the long scarf around his neck flapping feebly behind him. Obsidian irises gazed, unblinking, at some spot of interest on the river. Icy patches bloomed on the water as he stared, his cold eyes never losing focus of their target.
The man made no attempt to appear inconspicuous. Aside from his scarf, there was no indication that he had even noticed the biting air. A luxurious, charcoal sweater and black trousers made up his outfit, causing a number of concerned glances from swaddled dog-walkers and lecturers hurrying to their respective universities.
If anything, the clothes only served to exacerbate his unusual appearance. Jet black hair accentuated his marble skin and created an inky smudge against the overcast London atmosphere. At over six foot, and built like a medieval knight, Matthew Clairmont - which was the name he was using at the time - was an intimidating figure at best. He carried himself like a knight: alert; confident; somewhat dangerous.
Momentarily his eyes flickered, noticing some change on the river. A grin broke across his face before he could suppress it, and he set off in the direction of his gaze.
A woman was struggling to haul a rowing boat onto the bank. He picked up the other side with ease, and helped her carry it to the vacant space beside identical boats. She looked for a split-second as if she was going to hit him with an oar, but chose not to.
