Misha laughs. “Why are you here?” I ask him. “We cleared most of my place last night, and I can pick up the last few bits myself after work.”

“I’ll help you with that stuff.” His tone is uncompromising, and I don’t bother arguing. He carries on speaking. “I popped in because you forgot something.”

I frown, trying to think what it is, but my head feels fizzy with tiredness. I shrug and grab the returns trolley, determined to beat this lethargy. “Walk and talk,” I instruct him and ignore his sarcastic salute.

We make our way towards the non-fiction shelves, and I start to group the books together by subject. “What did I forget?” I ask.

He holds out his hand. On his palm is a shiny silver key on my old Union Jack keychain. “Your new house key.”

I grin at him as I pocket the key. “You sure you want me moving in with you into that bastion of tidiness that you call your flat?”

Misha shakes his head disapprovingly. “Only you would make tidiness sound like one of the seven deadly sins. Anyway, it’s a bit late to change my mind now, seeing as you dumped most of your crap in the middle of my lounge last night.”

He holds out his arms for the pile of books. After depositing them, I take a book off the top of the stack and shelve it.

“It’s not crap,” I say automatically. “It’s highly useful stuff.”

“Like the beanbag which has already shed most of its beans in the hallway? I can’t tell you how happy I was with that when I stepped on them barefoot this morning.”

I laugh and shelve some more books. “And you popped in just to give me a key? That’s a bit out of your way.” Misha has a very high-powered banking job in the city, and the library is way out of his normal commuting distance and time. He’s usually at his desk before I’ve even raised my head off my pillow and greeted the day.

He follows me round the stacks as I take books from his arms and shelve them. “You forgot your medi bracelet too,” he says in a foreboding tone.

I look down at my wrist, only now noticing its bareness. “Oops,” I say lightly. “The catch is loose.”

“I know,” he says grimly. “Actually, it’s not so much loose as threadbare.”

“It’s fine.” My tone is dismissive, and thunderclouds instantly gather on his face.

“It isn’t fine,” he says steadily. “It’s very far from fine. With the amount of turns you’ve been having lately, you should be wearing it.”

I wince. He puts the books down and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a leather box the size of an envelope.

“What’s that?” I ask.