It was ostensibly his inconvenience, but really he could tell it was her surrender: if Trystan had wagered on it, he still wasn’t sure she would have accepted the help at wandpoint. She was annoyed – he might be half the reason she was annoyed (he had to allow that some of it from the inadvertent lake dumping; he could not take all the credit of vexing her) – but she was, fortunately, fed up enough to give in.

(If she had been a different kind of person, the prospect of a warm pub like the Leaky Cauldron might have been an invitation – to stop for a while and pay a few sickles for a private room, sit and have a drink and get to know her – but she was not quite the shopgirl who liked to be flattered, or the waitress in need of a saviour that evening. The horse was a trusting creature, friendly even before he conjured a sugar cube for it – but she was a thorny thing, too wary to let him in. He would have to surrender something, whether he wanted to or not.)

So. “Trystan Selwyn,” he said easily, with a lilt of look me up, if you don’t believe me. “Of Selwyn Manor, in Wales.” She could find him, if she liked. Report him, if he had done something uncourteous. He highly doubted he would hear anything from her again. Nevertheless, he extended his hand, waiting to apparate her to the Cauldron. “I suppose I haven’t done enough to learn yours?” Trystan guessed.

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