can’t help you, miss,” Crosshaw dismissed her with finality. “Come along, Recruit Penhaligon. Hold yourself a bit straighter. What’s that on your leg?”
“Crab-armour,” said Arthur. Unlike the rest of his clothes, the crab-armour had remained, his new blue breeches forming under it. “For a broken leg.”
“As prescribed by me,” said Dr Scamandros. “Dr Scamandros, at your service. Major Scamandros, Army Sorcerer, retired. I did my draft service about three thousand years ago, before going on to advanced study in the Upper House.”
“Very good, sir,” said Crosshaw with another snappy salute. “If it’s a prescribed medical necessity, it can remain.”
“Lord Arthur is a mortal,” added Scamandros. He got out a small notepad and hastily scrawled something on it with a peacock-feather quill that dripped silver ink. “He needs the crab-armour and the ring on his finger for medical reasons. He should be given special consideration.”
Crosshaw took the proffered note, folded it and tucked it under his cuff.
“I’m still coming along,” said Suzy.
“No room for you in our elevator,” snapped Crosshaw. “I suppose there’s nothing to stop you petitioning Sir Thursday to re-enlist, if you actually are a reservist. Not something I’d do. But there’s nothing to stop you. Come along, Recruit Penhaligon. By the left, quick march!”
Crosshaw led off with his left foot, boot-heels crashing on the marble floor as he marched towards the door. Arthur followed, doing his best to imitate the lieutenant’s marching style and keep in step.
He felt suddenly incredibly alone, abandoned by everyone and extremely uncertain about what the future held.
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