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NATHANIEL

There comes a time in every man's life, Mandrake thought, in which the situation seems that it cannot possibly be worse. And it appeared to him that having to face Jane Farrar, who had scorn etched on each of her beautiful features, while himself wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe over a shirt slathered in mustard and ketchup, was… well, the situation spoke for itself. In fact, how could his predicament get worse?

Unbidden, an image sprang to mind of Bartimaeus sauntering in wearing the guise of… of… oh, God, it didn't bear thinking about. He quelled the image with difficulty. Yes, the situation could definitely be worse.

But things weren't that great right now, either.

He smiled weakly. "Um… hello. Nice… to see you?" He heard a badly stifled snort from the bathroom where the djinni was presumably listening. He would make Bartimaeus pay for this…

She did not smile back, but simply strode authoritatively into the room with the brisk, sharp clatter of high heels on wood. She was staring at him with odd intensity as she approached; her sparkling eyes were boring into his in a fashion that increased his discomfort greatly. She did not halt her progress until their toes were touching and her face was inches from his.

She spoke softly. "Where is it?"

Mandrake swallowed. Her perfume, which had always had an uncannily powerful effect on him, was, at this distance, intoxicating him like a drug. She was so close to him… He had a sudden, reckless impulse to put his arms around her. After all, why not? She was looking at him expectantly, and what other reason for that could there be? Then, distantly, as if from a past life, he realized that she had asked him a question… he couldn't remember what… He decided it was best to speak up, so he put his talent for carefully polished ministerial conversation to good use. "Huh?"

Her voice became slightly harsher. "You know what I mean. What do you take me for? I know you have it here in this room, and there's no use denying it." She looked irritated.

Mandrake found that to see her beautiful features contorted with displeasure, however mild, was, at this distance, more than he could bear. Another lemony waft of pomegranates swirled seductively into his nostrils. His head swam… He felt that he would do anything for those red lips to smile at him, so he said swiftly, without having a clue what she was talking about: "Oh. That. Yeah, it's here."

She smiled. For Mandrake it was heaven. "Where?"

"What does it matter?" he said, smiling back at her.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Excuse me?"

Mandrake smiled wider. "We're here. Together. Just the two of us." Her hair was so dark, so shiny… he had another impulse to reach out and stroke it. No, more than an impulse – a decision. He leaned forward, reached out – just as Jane Farrar whirled away.

"Hopeless," she snarled, stalking towards the door, "Absolutely hopeless."

But Mandrake, who had overbalanced, fallen forward with arms swinging wildly, tripped over a chair, caught his fluffy bathrobe on the desk corner, and crashed to the floor, did not hear her.

Once at the door, she turned. "I'll be back," she said, eyes iron cold, "and I expect you-know-what to be in my possession before the week is out." With these parting words, she took her leave.

Sprawled face-first amid the wreckage of his chair, Mandrake could only stare weakly after her.

o o o

After waiting a tactful fifteen seconds, Bartimaeus chose to make his presence known. Shutting the lavatory door behind him, he looked down at Mandrake sadly. "A shame," he said quietly, "a crying shame."

Mandrake didn't answer. He was still staring at the spot where Jane Farrar had disappeared.

"Your beautiful, beautiful dressing gown," Bartimaeus said, shaking his head. "Ripped to shreds."

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