Julian ceased his work with the poker, put it aside and held his palms out toward the warmth. “Are we still at the same inn?” he asked. His voice was yet somewhat slurred.

“The same.”

“Because of me, I’m supposing.” One hand went down to gingerly touch the wrapping that hopefully secured his ribs from moving around too much. “That doctor … had quite the strength. I remember that.” He shot a severe glare at Matthew. “Why the hell didn’t you go on? I would have.”

“According to Fell’s calculations,” Matthew replied, “we are returning in the proper time. And Firebaugh has consented to give us no more trouble. In fact, I’ve talked him into looking forward to meeting the professor.”

“Huh. You missed your calling. You should’ve been a politician. Or a priest.”

“Unlikely,” said Matthew.

“I need to sit down,” Julian said, and he very slowly settled himself into a chair, his face still gray and pinched with pain.

“You were running a fever.”

Julian put a hand up to touch his shaven scalp. “Well, now I’ve got the chills, so obviously I am no longer feverish. But I’m damned hungry. My stomach is an empty hole. Can you get me something?”

“I’ll see.” Matthew didn’t wish to waken the Varneys, who slept in a back room off the kitchen, but he quietly followed the lamp’s light into the kitchen and found on a platter two corncakes that had not been consumed at the previous meal. He took the platter to Julian, who finished them off in a matter of seconds and then asked for a drink. Back to the kitchen Matthew went, finding a clay flagon of the apple cider in the pantry. He measured out a mugful and in the parlor Julian poured the cider down his throat as if it were the golden liquid of life.

“Better,” Julian said. “Not perfect,” he amended. “But better. We should get back on the road at first light.”

“I don’t think you’re able yet.”

Julian didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe not. I couldn’t control the team.”

“I’m driving the rest of the way. I think we’ll probably have two more stops before we get back.”

“Right.” Julian closed his eyes and was silent. Matthew thought he’d gone to sleep sitting up, but at last Julian said with his eyes still closed, “I have killed many men. Many. I have lost count. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

“Some deserved to die. Others did not.” His eyes opened. “Should I feel guilty?”

Matthew suspected that all of Julian’s guilt was concentrated upon the boy he had crushed beneath a runaway horse on a London street. He couldn’t find an answer.