In the depths of his fair chest he felt something a bit like… was that envy? (Actually it was most certainly attraction, but Bragi did not know of such things.) He was not envious of Tybalt Kirke himself, for only very few people in this world could pull off such jolly daring, and Bragi was not one of them. No, he was envious that he’d never lived this life. He’d never been so led astray at the age you were supposed to. He’d never explored and endangered and fled the beaten track.

But it wasn’t too late to relive the schooldays he’d never had.

”Bragi Holm”, he replied warmly, ”and I came to Britain because, erm —“ Bragi didn’t hesitate because he didn’t know why he’d come to Britain. He knew precisely why he’d come to Britain. He hesitated because they’d just reached an enormous, cavernous stairwell, and several of the vertigo-inducing staircases above were moving through the air, producing a constantly changing play of candlelight on the walls and floor.

”I came here because it’s marvellous.”