Especially for me, because when I’m wearing one of my more recently acquired hats (trainee necromancer) I’m all about the jamming-with-magic–in–my–head thing. My relationship with K syndrome is like that of a forty-a-day smoker with basal-cell carcinoma: not so much a matter of if as of when.

Which is why I am not looking forward to my visit with Dr. Wills.

• • •

“EXCUSE ME, IS THIS THE ENTRANCE TO THE DEPARTMENT OF Neurodegenerative Disease?”

“I have an appointment in the Prion Research Unit . . . ?”

“Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Wills?”

“How do I get to Dr. Wills’s office . . . ?”

I’m lost in a twisty maze of whitewashed corridors, surrounded by glass-fronted cabinets stuffed full of photocopied notices on every side (not to mention a scattering of conference-surplus posters with excessively enlarged cross-sections of gruesomely diseased brains, just for variety). I’ve been wandering in circles for ten minutes now and I’m just beginning to despair of finding my destination. Trish booked me a slot with the doctor for 3:30 p.m., but I’m running a quarter of an hour late. I find myself flagging down an irritated-looking researcher who clearly thinks she has better things to do than give directions to visiting admin people.

“I’m not in,” she snaps. “I’m running late for a meeting.”

I do a double take. “Are you Dr. Wills?”

“Yes, and I’m running late.” She begins to walk away. “If it’s about the facilities audit it’ll have to wait—”

I haul out my warrant card. “I’m not from admin.”

Wills turns back towards me. “Hey, I’m supposed to be meeting you in room 2006. What are you doing here?”

“Nobody told me about a meeting room. Where’s room 2006?”

“Oh for—” She stops. “Hmm.” She has a way of tilting her head and narrowing her eyes as she assimilates new information that reminds me of Mo. The straw-blonde hair and slightly watery eyes behind thick lenses are very different, though. “Well, as you’re here, would you rather use my office?”

I shrug. “If it’s private.” I put the warrant card away. “As I said, nobody mentioned a meeting room.”

“Mack, our departmental receptionist, said he’d sorted it out.”

“Well, it never got passed on to my end.” Yet another detail that fell through the cracks. “Your office isn’t shared, is it?”

“Yes, but Barry’s teaching today.” She eyes me cautiously. “Why?”

“What I want to talk about isn’t for public consumption, I’m afraid.” I shrug self-effacingly, trying to take the sting out of my brusque approach. “I need to pick your brain on the subject of a delicate matter.”