I ignore him. I don’t have energy for his bitterness right now. Just because Kit sometimes loses his wallet doesn’t mean we can dismiss his whole disappearance.

“I looked around the house and there was no sign of him, but when I went in the bathroom I found blood. Tons of it.” I shut my eyes against the image; I know I’ll have to see it again soon enough. “That’s when I knew something was wrong. So I went out and looked, but it’s a big island, isn’t it? Couldn’t find anything.”

Thomas stays silent, staring off at the other side of the ferry, the wind lapping at his hair.

“At that point it was almost dusk, so I figured I might as well stay, use up my chance on land and keep on looking. I couldn’t handle the idea of having to wait an entire year.” I sigh. “So I put my pelt in a rucksack and hitchhiked to Glasgow.”

“Did you ask Owen if he’d seen him? He would probably be more useful than me,” Thomas asks. I search my memory for any mention of an Owen.

“I don’t know who he is,” I say with a shrug. “Kit never mentioned him.”

“That’s weird,” Thomas says slowly, frowning. “Owen still lives on Mab; he called me a few months ago. They’re friends. He grew up with us.”

I sigh and throw my hands up.

“I don’t know! I only see him once a year, I don’t know everyone he knows!”

Truth be told I don’t really know anyone he knows, which feels really weird if I focus on it too long. I don’t like not knowing things. Since coming on land, it’s clear how little I actually know, and Thomas is doing his best to make me feel like I don’t know anything.

“So why get me? Any magician would have worked,” Thomas asks. His tone is almost too casual.

I turn my back to Thomas and scoop up the plastic bag of socks, and then march across the deck to sit at one of the hard metal benches lined up next to the railings.

“Kit said you’re the most trustworthy person he knows,” I say, leaning down to unlace my boots.

“Kit is seriously deranged,” Thomas bites out, another bitter laugh escaping him.

“He seems fine to me,” I retort, pulling on the socks. God, they’re so warm. “He’s more pleasant than you are.”

“So how did you have my address, if Owen didn’t give it to you?”

I shrug and pull a bit too forcefully at the laces of the boot as I try to retie my shoes.

“Kit had it and your number on his fridge.”

Thomas lets out a high, hysterical-sounding laugh and his hands fly up to clench at his curls. His eyes are wide and manic. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. “I’m going to fucking slaughter Owen.”