When she woke, dusk was drawing in. It took her a few moments to understand why her bed felt so different today, before she remembered that she was in a new flat. A new city. A new continent. Max went to the window, held back the curtain, and looked out at Asia. People hurried home through the darkening streets – not so different, after all those miles crossed, from Parisians hurrying home on a December evening. For a few minutes she just stood, feeling very far from home and at the same time not so far at all.

Then she tidied up her plaits, and found her shoes, and went downstairs. The café had been filled with candles, and it looked lovely, but it was still mostly empty. Max felt sad for Salem, who clearly cared for the place beautifully. A few small groups clustered at tables, drinking tea, and sharing something that Max had not seen before: colourful glass bottles sat between them, with pipes winding out like octopus legs, and people puffed on the pipes as they sat and talked.

Salem Sadik appeared behind her with a tray. “Shisha,” he said, smiling. “Tobacco is heated at the bottom of those glass things, the hookah; and they’re all smoking it. Terrible for you, just like cigarettes. Perhaps you’d prefer some tea?” He nodded at the two copper teapots on his tray, stacked one on top of the other. “We’re over here, in the corner. Follow me. I hope you slept well?”

So Max followed Salem, past the muttering groups, through candlelight and shisha smoke, to where a group she knew sat waiting: Sister Marguerite, Ester Rosenkrantz, Klaus Grob, and Rupert Nobes.

Rupert Nobes?

Max blinked, wondering if she was seeing things. She gawped. She gawped some more. She briefly goggled, then went back to gawping. But the more she gawped, the more Rupert carried on very much being there, and not in a hospital bed in Romania at all.

“Hello, Max,” he said, smiling at her shocked face. The smile was interrupted by an enormous fit of sneezing and shuddering, but when that was over, he went back to smiling. He looked as scruffy as ever, but not as vague – sharper round the edges somehow, like a grainy film come into focus.

“Sit!” ordered Marguerite. “Tea! We need to look after you, mon lapin. You’re not the only one who’s had adventures on the wrong side of trains, Rupert. Max crawled on the roof. While it was moving.”

Rupert raised his eyebrows. “I say, not bad, Max!”

“But,” added Klaus, “please never do it again.”

“Um,” said Max, “what’s…?” Which was about all she could manage. She sipped the tea that Salem had poured into a glass for her. It was strong and dark, with a sweet streak of sugar.