Ford hesitated. If he had his way, he'd be practically living at Tycho's by now, but there were some very obvious barriers to his sneaking over any time he pleased. "Maybe," he allowed. No one had any evening plans that he knew of, which in theory meant that he was free from responsibilities — but in practice that sometimes meant that he was far from free of scrutiny. If Clem decided to sit up in the parlor until midnight reading some political pamphlet she'd picked up on the street, he was hardly going to use the floo to conduct a late night visit. This all would have been much easier to arrange if Ford had been the one to become an animagus (not that he thought he'd have the talent for it in a million years) — or if Ford could be reasonably assured of privacy in his bedroom, but the walls were too thin and the lock was too cheap for him to risk that.

"I can write and let you know how it's looking," he suggested. "You know I want to."

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