Thanks to the magic of science I copied the rest of the pictures onto a flash drive, which, thanks to the science of magic, I’d tested and found they didn’t get messed up every time I did a spell. As far as I could determine, nearby use of magic only degraded chips that had power running through them at the time, but it frustrated me that I didn’t even have a theory as to how magic actually worked. A little analytical voice in my head pointed out that any working hypothesis was probably going to involve quantum theory at some point—the part of physics that made my brains trickle out of my ears.

I arranged for the bombing reports and the other documents to be copied and made sure to thank the librarian properly before heading for where I’d parked the Asbo that morning.

When I got back to the Folly I found Dr. Walid in the atrium talking to Molly.

“Ah good, Peter,” he said. “I’m glad you came back. Let’s have some tea, shall we?”

Molly shot me a reproachful look and went gliding off toward the kitchen. Dr. Walid led me over to a collection of overstuffed red armchairs and mahogany occasional tables that nestled under the overhang of the eastern balcony. I noticed he had his medical bag with him, a modern ballistic plastic case covered in burgundy leather whose one concession to tradition was the stethoscope wound around the handle.

“I’m concerned,” he said, “that Thomas has been pushing himself too hard.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s picked up an infection and he’s running a fever,” said Dr. Walid.

“He was okay at breakfast,” I said.

“Man could be dead on his feet before he’d admit to it,” said Dr. Walid. “I don’t want him disturbed for the next couple of days. He was shot through the chest, Peter, there’s tissue damage there that will never fully heal, and it will make him prone to chest infections like the one he’s got now. I’ve put him on a course of antibiotics, which I expect Molly to make sure he completes.”

Molly arrived with the good Wedgwood tea set on a lacquered wooden tray. She poured for Dr. Walid with quick dainty movements and pointedly left without pouring mine. Obviously she blamed me for Nightingale’s relapse—perhaps she knew about the beer.

Dr. Walid poured my tea and helped himself to a HobNob.

“I heard Leslie is in town for an operation,” I said.

“She’s going to be fine,” said Dr. Walid. “You just need to make sure that when she asks for your help, you’re ready to give it. How do you feel about her injuries?”

“It didn’t happen to me,” I said. “It happened to Leslie and Dr. Framline and that poor Hari Krishna sod and the others.”

“Do you feel guilty?”