It was past ten o'clock when the door opened again. This time, he came awake swiftly.

“Russell?”

“Good heavens,” she said. “Are you still asleep? Sorry, I felt sure you'd gone out and I missed seeing you.”

“How long have you been up?” A faint heaviness at the edges of his voice gave away his sleep-clogged state, and he cleared his throat to rid himself of it.

“Oh, two or three hours,” she answered cheerfully: If that was true, she had slept for less than three hours, in spite of which she showed no signs of hang-over. She was probably still intoxicated. “It's a lovely morning, a bit of fog earlier but it looks to be warm today. I'll just fetch what I came for and leave you.”

“That is not necessary, I was on the edge of waking. Have you had your breakfast?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Six cups of black coffee.”

“Two, and toast,” she protested.

“Then you'll be ready for a proper breakfast. I shall meet you in the restaurant after I have shaved. Unless your current task cannot wait.”

“Oh no, that's fine. I was just coming for the key, I thought I'd go up to the house this morning, but it can wait. I'll order coffee.” And so saying she left. Holmes rubbed his face, grimacing at the stubble, and swung his long legs to the floor.

The restaurant was nearly deserted at that hour, and Russell was at a window table, the bright sunlight turning her into the silhouette of a young woman bent over her morning paper. She looked sleek and alien in her bobbed haircut and new clothes, and the arm that stretched across the paper had something of the modern fashion for bone without muscle: In another few days, her thinness would become alarming.

She looked up when he came to the table, and permitted the waiter to fill her cup along with Holmes'.

“Have you ordered?” he asked.

“I'll just have a piece of toast. I had an omelette at Flo's house.”

“Seven hours ago. You will have a breakfast,” he said flatly, and turned to the waiter to order two large meals. She raised an eyebrow at his tone and his action, and when the waiter had left, Holmes addressed himself to her again. “Occasional periods of self-starvation benefit the mental processes; over the long term, it can be destructive. The body is a machine, and needs fuel. Think of your porridge and eggs as petrol.”

“They will have about as much savour.”

“The body cares not what the palate thinks. What is in the news today?”

He listened with half an ear as she read to him a number of political and criminological stories that concerned him not in the least—“3 FLUNG TO ROAD FROM CABLE-CAR” was one admittedly evocative headline, less so the lengthy tale of a woman who came home from filing for divorce to find her three children and the husband shot to death by his hand. When their food came, he waited until she had begun before he picked up his fork, and felt he was nearly counting the number of times her own rose and fell. After a time, the habits of her own physicality took over, and he relaxed his vigil, and paid closer attention to her words.