Quietly and calmly, Crowley finishes off his tea. When the serving-rat tries to hand him the key to the big grey room, he shakes his head, asks for another. In the plain, wood-toned room, he kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket and shirt, and stretches full length on the single bed.

He looks at the ugly painting at the foot of the bed, and they'd done it, it had worked, they'd done it, and done it together. And he thinks of silly tongue-slips and fading grins and the sound of a door clicking shut and a squeeze of his hand that he wishes had not been his imagination.

Presently, he rolls onto his side, and curls up very small.