She leads them to a group of sofas and chairs near the window and begs them sit down. It is as though she is about to serve tea. But her face is cold and hostile, her attention on Thomas. She is making him responsible for the intrusion.

“What can I do for you?”

Charlie speaks before Thomas can answer. “We broke into Julius’s room.” He says it like it was his idea; does not soften it or excuse it, simply presents her with the fact. “We found these.” He nods to Thomas to pass over one of the cigarettes. “They are not what they seem.”

Livia takes the cigarette from Thomas, smells it, then immediately returns it. It is clear that she has recognised them at once.

“And?”

“What are they?” Charlie asks.

“You didn’t try one?”

“No.”

“Nor you, Mr. Argyle?”

Thomas shakes his head, holds her eyes. “I was afraid.”

“Do it,” she says. “I understand the effect is not permanent.”

Again Thomas produces the box of matches, again he hesitates, his blood rebelling against the smell. Or is it? There is, mixed into his fear, the faintest thread of longing.

Again Charlie intervenes.

“I will try it,” he announces. “If Livia says they’re harmless, I will.”

She shakes her head, as though wishing to stop him, then thinks better of it.

“All right then, Mr. Cooper. Here, I will hold the match.”

Charlie takes the cigarette from Thomas’s hand; Livia reaches over and snatches up the matches. Her face, as she looks at Charlie, holds a peculiar expression. Renfrew looks like that, when he asks one of the clever boys a question that is particularly difficult. Hopeful. But expecting failure all the same. Between them, they have turned Thomas into a spectator. It sits ill with him, but he does not intervene as Charlie holds the tip of the cigarette into the flame. Charlie coughs a little, exhales the barest breath of grey, takes another drag.

“And — how do you feel?” Livia asks.

Charlie speaks very quickly.

“I feel normal,” he says. “Just the same as before.

“Good,” he says. “I feel really good.”

He gets up from the chair, starts pacing the room. Livia is not looking at him, speaks to her hands, folded in her lap as though in prayer. The words are so meek, it takes a while to digest their meaning.

“Mother says it makes boys ‘amorous.’ Girls too, but I think she is referring to something anatomical.”

Charlie frowns at this, turns away from them, paces.

Thomas, unnerved, walks over to him.

“Are you all right?”

When he places the hand on Charlie’s shoulder, his friend shakes it off with sudden violence, steps close to Thomas, presses his forehead into his.