The back of the London court was its own enclosed world, seemingly miles away from the busy streets outside. A tall, red brick wall enclosed a sizeable space made less so by the presence of a huge oak in the middle. The hoary old roots had shoved some of the flagstones trying to form a patio out of the way, but there was still enough room under the spreading branches for a small, wrought iron table and a couple of chairs.

The chairs weren’t very comfortable, but Gertie was an adherent of the Victorian belief in pain being good for the soul, or at least the spine. My spine was feeling a little bruised, like the rest of me. But a rotund woman in a maid’s black and whites was already bustling over with a tray, and my mood was perking up.

“I don’t think I have ever seen anyone as fond of food as you,” Gertie said, as the woman put the tray down onto the little table.

It covered most of it, but that was fine, because I still had room for a teacup, leaving my unbandaged hand free for a cherry turnover. The sweet pies hadn’t survived transit, unfortunately, so this was dessert. And a good one, at that.

The pastry was flaky and homemade, and stuffed with huge, fat fruits that were just slightly sour, their taste offset by a heavy swath of icing. To make things even better, the turnover was still warm, as if the cook had taken it out of the oven just before popping it into its little silver basket. I inhaled it and was halfway through number two before I looked up.

“Does you court feed you at all?” Gertie demanded.

“When they can,” I said, around a mouthful of pastry. “I’m away a lot.”

“So I heard.”

“I do not talk in my sleep.”

“Then perhaps I had a vision.” Gertie sipped tea. “Or perhaps you came screaming past me at a hundred miles an hour, untethered in time and chased by your desperate heir, and I had to catch you.”

I stopped chewing. “Is that what happened?”

“Well, why did you think you were here?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t think that the truth—that so many strange things had happened to me in the last six months that I’d learned to just roll with them—would go down well. Gertie tended not to understand answers like that.

Maybe because her court was what a Pythian home base was supposed to be. I glanced around enviously. A few autumn leaves blew across the paving stones, rustling softly, like the skirts of several white gowned acolytes walking serenely by. Autumn roses, in vivid orange and red, bloomed from a trellis by the wall, and the tree overhead produced an even more impressive swirl of color.