“But I won’t be able to sleep—”

Her handheld began to bleep. I jumped.

“Exaggerated Nervousness,” she said, typing it into the handheld, and to me, “I want to run a few tests. Take off your clothes and put this on,” she said, taking a paper gown out of a drawer and dumping it on my legs. “I’ll be back directly. The fastening tapes go in the back. And wash up. You’re covered in soot.”

She went out and shut the door. I got off the examining table, leaving a long black smear where I’d been sitting, and went over to the door.

“Worst case of time-lag I’ve ever seen,” she was saying to someone. I hoped it wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. “He could write rhymed verse for the dailies.”

It wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. I knew because I couldn’t hear whoever it was answer.

The nurse said, “He’s showing undue anxiety, which isn’t a usual symptom. I want to run a scan to see if I can find out the source of the anxiety.”

I could tell her right now the source of my anxiety, which was not undue, if she’d only listen, which wasn’t likely. And fierce though she was, she was no match for Lady Schrapnell.

I couldn’t stay here. When you have a scan, they strap you into a long enclosed tube for an hour and a half and communicate with you by microphone. I could hear Lady Schrapnell’s voice booming at me through the earphones, “There you are. Come out of that contraption immediately!”

I couldn’t stay here, and I couldn’t go back to my rooms. They were the first place she’d look. Perhaps I could find somewhere in the infirmary and sleep long enough to be able to think clearly what to do.

Mr. Dunworthy, I thought. If anyone could find me somewhere quiet and unlikely to hide, it would be Mr. Dunworthy. I put the paper gown, somewhat soot-smudged, back in the drawer, tugged on my boots, and climbed out the window.