At least I tried, Nick thought. When I see Lirael . . . and Sam . . . and the Abhorsen—though I hope I don’t have to explain it to her—then I can honestly say I really did my best. I mean, even if I had managed to catch up with them, I don’t know if I’d have been able to do anything. Maybe my Charter-spelled dagger would have worked . . . maybe I could have tried something else. . . .

Nick suddenly felt very tired, and sore, the weariness more urgent than the pain. Even his feet hurt, and for the first time he realized he was still wearing carpet slippers. He was sure his shoes had been wonderfully shined, but by now they would be ash in the ruins of Dorrance Hall.

Nick shook his head at the thought, pushed back on the golf bag, and, without meaning to, fell instantly asleep.

He woke to find something gripping his elbow. Instantly he lashed out with his fist, connecting with something fleshy rather than the scaly, hard surface his dreaming mind had suggested might be the case.

“Ow!”

A young man dressed in ludicrously bright golfing tweeds looked up at Nick, his hand covering his nose. Other passengers were already in the corridor, most of them with their bags in hand. The train had arrived in Bain.

“You’ve broken my nose!”

“Sorry!” Nick said as he vaulted down. “I’m very sorry! Mistaken identity. Thought you were a monster.”

“I say!” called out the man. “Wait a moment. You can’t just hit a man and run away!”

“Urgent business!” Nick replied as he ran to the door, weaving past several other passengers, who quickly stood aside. “Nicholas Sayre’s the name. Many apologies!”

He jumped out onto the platform, half expecting to see it swarming with police, soldiers, and ambulance attendants. He would be able to report to someone in authority and then check into the hotel for a proper rest.

But there was only the usual bustle of a big country station in the middle of the night, with the last important train finally in. Passengers were disembarking. Porters were gathering cases. A newspaper vendor was hawking a late edition of the Times, shouting, “Flood kills five men, three horses. Getcher paper! Flood kills five—”

There’d be a different headline in the next edition, Nick thought, though it almost certainly wouldn’t be the real story. “Fire at Country House” would be most likely, with the survivors paid or pressured to shut up. He would probably get to read it over breakfast, which reminded him that he was extremely hungry and needed to have a very late, much-delayed dinner. Of course, in order to eat, he’d need to get some money, and that meant . . .

“Excuse me, sir, could I see your ticket, please?”

Nick’s train of thought derailed spectacularly. A railway inspector was standing too close to him, looking sternly at the disheveled, blackened, eyebrowless young man in ruined evening wear with a chain of braided daisies around his neck and carpet slippers on his feet.