Zelda pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. The nanny was ill, which happened, but she needed someone to relieve her. Alfred couldn't do it, because he was underway and probably closer to Trafalgar than home. Zelda couldn't do it because she had a meeting with Elsie Kirke's husband in twenty-five minutes, and because it was the middle of the workday and she would like to keep her job. She felt guilty asking the Fudges for too many favors. Which left — various relatives, who would definitely tell her father about this, or Caroline, and she didn't think she could handle whatever gloating would ensue.

After firing off some notes, securing Roslyn's help, and owling the nanny that Ros would be taking the floo to relieve her, twenty-four minutes had passed. Zelda ran to the lift, took it to the Games & Sports floor, and trotted over to Kirke's office. She knocked on the side of the door and stepped inside.

"I'm so sorry to be late, Mr. Kirke," Zelda said, self-conscious and aware of the flush in her cheeks and her flyaway hairs from the run — she sounded a bit out of breath.