Kim turned to glare at him. “You can’t swim, and you climbed over the side of a bloody yacht, and it wasn’t even— Jesus Christ, Will! Why would you do that?”

“You know why.”

Kim shut his eyes. His hand tightened on Will’s. “I do, yes. It’s because you’re a sodding lunatic with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Because I love you. Arsehole.”

“Which is what I just said.”

“No, that was why I started seeing you. It’s not why I’m still here.”

Kim put his other hand over the two already joined. Will covered that with his own, feeling Kim’s skin chilly against his, and they sat together in silence, four hands clasped like a promise, as the new day dawned around them and the yacht sped on.

***

THERE WAS A RECEPTION committee at the dock. Will watched with the ladies as Kim and his father brought Aurora in, working in what at least looked like wordless harmony.

“Who are they all, do you think?” Maisie asked.

“That’s at least two police cars,” Will said. “And—oh God.”

“What?”

“See the dark bloke with his arms crossed? The one that you can tell he’s pissed off all the way from here?”

“Yes?”

“He’s the head of the Private Bureau.”

“Gosh,” Phoebe said. “What does that mean?”

“We’re saved, or we’re dead. One of the two.”

Will’s legs felt decidedly wobbly when they got off the yacht. They made quite a sight: Kim in his superbly cut suit; Will smeared with coal-dust and sweat, with no shoes, one trouser leg hacked off at the knee, and a bloodstained bandage round his calf; Maisie and Phoebe in hopelessly bedraggled Paris fashion. Lord Flitby was grey-faced, as well he might be: he’d been up the whole night.

DS immediately buttonholed Kim. Maisie went to find a bench to sit on, and put her head between her knees while Phoebe fluttered around her. That left Will, propped against a post, and Lord Flitby, who said, “Mr. Darling,” in a voice like the creak of a coffin lid.

Will turned. “Yes?”

The old man looked exhausted but he stood straight. Will wondered what that was costing him. “Arthur told me a certain amount last night. I don’t pretend to understand your position, or his decisions. I don’t understand him. Bad blood on his mother’s side.”

“Mmm,” Will said, as an alternative to Oh, shut up.

“Notwithstanding, I cannot— I don’t—” He stopped, tried again. “My son—Chingford—has erred grievously. I must accept my part in that. I am grateful for your intervention, and your courage.”