It hadn't occurred to him until after he said it that she might not listen, but there was an obstinate expression about her that made him consider it. He had no backup plan for if she simply waltzed out of the door, but maybe that wouldn't have been the worst thing. He had no actual plan at all, in any case, so if she derailed it things probably couldn't go much worse.

"You're already in trouble," he retorted, though that maybe wasn't true. Not in the acute sense, anyway; she had sort of be born into a certain degree of trouble, having the parents she did. But this was a troublesome situation — someone was in trouble. Maybe it was him.

"Dempsey estate," he snapped at the floo as he tossed the powder in — he had started keeping pinches of floo powder in interior pockets some time ago, for situations where he ended up adrift in strange places and in need of a quick escape and didn't want to spend time looking for any. He took the girl by the arm and pulled her through with him, then kept hold of her arm while he marched her through the parlor and into the room across the hall — slightly less likely to be interrupted than staying in the parlor. He let go of her in the vicinity of an armchair and continued on past her, stopping at the sideboard and making himself a stiff drink to replace the one he'd left at the bar.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said as he fumbled with the glassware. "You're Dutch."

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