If she marks any shred of his hesitation, it surely doesn't translate to the eagerness with which Wysteria gloms onto Ellis' offered arm. With a last shooing hiss at the briard who is skeptical enough with this whole arrangement and the mabari that she doesn't need much encouragement to lead the way back inside, Wysteria drags him eagerly across the little garden courtyard and over the threshold.

The kitchen beyond is as one might expect it to be: a riot of papers and books and half assembled prototypes of various nightmares, and a not inconsiderable side of dirty dishes. The fire in the great unused cooking hearth has been allowed to burn down to little more than embers, and the stairwell down into the cellar-slash-work room is dark. To say that is remains unchanged from when last Ellis saw it would be incorrect; but it is familiar in its chaos, the tenor largely unaltered despite ample evidence elsewhere (piled stones and working equipment crammed into one corner of the garden) that something has indeed been afoot.

"Sit, sit," Wysteria insists, loosing her arm from the crook of Ellis' elbow so that she might snatch at the big mop of a dog's collar. The leather band is comedically expensive, encrusted with a rich selection of stones better suited to dripping off a high born lady's neck than a guard dog's. "I'll put her in the hallway and then see to the fire and the kettle. Come along, Déranger. You're being shockingly rude to our guest."