Peregrine is the first thing you see when the door opens — stretched across the foot of the bed, a glass of wine loose in his fingers, watching you the way a man watches a hand of cards he has already won. He is drunk, and it makes him worse, not softer. Valentin Ashdown is saying something behind you about your dress; Sylvester Nightshade is a shadow at the wall. Peregrine just smiles.

he says, to the room, to you, to no one in particular.

He sits up, slow, and sets the glass down.

He looks at you then, properly, and there is something in his smile that is not drunk at all.

he says, patting the empty space on the bed beside him,