He could feel the strong sun on his upturned face as they delivered him to the homebound ship. Rivers of blood had been shed and many brave men had died horrific, lonely deaths, in this far-off, alien land. And now, at long last, it was all over.

Mortally wounded, he was going home.

As he hovered in the dim world between life and death, he was aware of someone else in the cabin with him.

“Wha …?” he rasped, his throat feeling ragged and raw, as though it had been ripped open.

“The Wolven brought you,” soothed a woman’s voice. “Drink this, ‘tis rose water.”

The heady, beloved smell of English roses invaded his senses. He struggled to lift his head, eager to sup the hot liquid. When he had drained the cup, his cares fell away, and he laid his head down on the soft, snowy pillow.

“May the heavens bless you,” said Iona.

In the darkened room, Nat Carver felt as though his throat had been torn apart. He tried to lift his head from the pillow, but it hurt too much. It felt like the top of his skull had been hacked off, then stuck crudely back together with lumpy, ineffective glue. His mouth no longer felt like various small animals had curled up and died inside because, bizarrely, all he could taste was roses. An angel had given him the drink, but she was gone now. Had he been on a ship? He was going home: Where was that?

He slept again. Beside him on the huge bed lay a delicate gray-and-cream guardian. She cracked open one lapis lazuli eye to check if her ward was still asleep. She stretched on the luxurious quilt, glad that at last it had been safe to come out from under the bed.

On the second day, Nat’s memory still drifted like a small boat, bobbing on the ocean. Other people had come, some with familiar voices, sounding worried and sad. Everything hurt.

It was dark. The candle at the side of his bed gave little light. His gaze drifted to the corner, where he could see the black outline of a person. He gasped. Two eyes glowed out of the darkness. Then it all came back to him.

Scale! He had been bitten by the foulest, most mottled, rotten, stinking creature ever to set foot on earth. Now he, too, was unclean, and there was the creature waiting for him in the corner of the room.

Nat started to flail. “No!” he cried. “I’d rather be dead than like you!”

The shape rose from the chair in the corner and rushed to the side of the bed. In his struggle, Nat pulled out the tubes he had sticking into his forearm, smashing some bottle onto the floor in the process.

“Nat, stop! It’s me, Woody. Scale is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”