The cottage looks more ramshackle on the outside than it does on the inside. In fact it could be called downright cosy, which is not a word that has ever or would ever be used to describe Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier. There's more than two drawers being used here, more than a ship's berth lacking in decor or personality or a lopsided ice hut with only snow and scraps of tattered wool to keep a man company. It's a home, with all the various tell-tale trappings of comfortable living and a relative feeling of security.

"Dandelion root," he says, choosing to head for the kitchen and its table covered in papers and books and empty dishes. Someone's in need of a house keeper or a steward. Crozier at least has the sense to clear the cups and plates before motioning for Fitzjames to have a seat, but it's not at all graceful.

"It's not the worst thing you'll put into your body," he continues, talking as he prods at a pot on a woodfire stove. "Did you come all this way to see me, or was this an unexpected visit?"