For a moment he is so certain of this he can see no other possible explanation. Travelers walk around him, barely giving him a second glance. Porters wheel luggage past. A small child is dragged by the hand, wailing, his mother’s heels clicking on the floor as she marches on. It seems to Bram the world is going on without him, that he is no longer properly a part of it. If, indeed, he has ever been. Then, hidden deep inside himself, he locates a small kernel of hope.

What if she has been unavoidably detained? What if she intended to meet me, wanted to, but was prevented from doing so?

He searches for possible reasons, for plausible explanations for her absence. There must, he has to convince himself, there must be some reason other than the unthinkable. Other than that she has thrown him over, and he will never see her again.

Perhaps she is in difficulty of some sort? Could it be she has been visited by the Dark Spirit again? I know how terrible that vile creature’s strength is, what pain he can cause. She might need me, even now, and be unable to send word to me.

The ridiculousness of their situation suddenly fires a useful spark of anger in his belly. He stands up. What manner of world are they living in when one human being cannot contact another, contact someone who cares deeply for them, when they are in need? It is preposterous. If she needs him, he will go to her. He will go to her, and who cares what anyone else thinks or says? He springs up with renewed purpose, snatching up his valise, and makes his way hurriedly back through the throng and out of the station. He attempts to hail a cab, but there are none to be had, so instead he sets off at a loping trot for Fitzroy Square. It is not far, but his clothes are unsuitable for such exertion, his collar quickly chafes and his shoes soon start to rub, threatening blisters. He ignores such trifling discomforts and hurries on, so that by the time he reaches the railings of the square’s garden he is hot and a little breathless, and damp with perspiration.