“Afternoon, lady,” the man said to Elizabeth, with a polite little bow. “Dark like the stroke a’ midnight, but there you have it.” And then Firebaugh got out, barelegged and wearing the plaid banyan robe. The innkeeper gave a whistle. “Zonders! You’re toggin’ a nightgown in this foulness? And … what got at your face, sir? Highwaymen?”

“He had an accident with a knife,” said Julian.

“Bloody tinshears, that was some accident then! Go on inside, my Greta’ll put the balm to it. I’m Oliver Autrey, by the by.”

“Pleased,” Julian said, but offered no name in return. “We can’t spend more than an hour here, understand?”

“In such a hurry? An hour’ll hardly do for the team!”

“It’ll have to do.” And the way Julian said it, there was no room for disagreement.

“’Gainst my nature as an innkeeper and stablemaster,” said Autrey, “but I’ll do my best with the time. Horses won’t like it, though, goin’ from cold to warm to cold again so—”

Julian had already turned his back on Autrey and was shoving Firebaugh toward the cottage. Matthew followed behind Elizabeth, and he heard Autrey speaking quietly and reassuringly to the horses as they were approached to be unhitched.

They had not stopped at this particular coach inn on the way from Bristol with the Turlentorts, as they had paused for a couple of brief hours at one that Matthew figured was about fifteen miles further to the northwest. For their purpose, the inns were havens to the weary traveller, offering food, drink, and a place to sleep—bed, cot or barn, depending on the size of the establishment. Matthew was glad to be getting in out of the weather, as the wind had picked up strength and the trees in the forest on three sides of the cottage were losing their coats of snow in long white streamers. He had a sudden thought that locked his knees. “The book!” he said, and he was relieved when Julian turned at the door and touched the breast area of Bogen’s cloak, indicating a second buttoned pocket—or pouch in this case—large enough to push the book into.