“You might as well do the crate while you are about it, Captain Short,” said Artemis, wishing he could sneak in an extra word to bolster the sentence.

Immediately, Holly mounted the crate and apparently punched it into sections.

“Wow,” exhaled Foaly. “That seemed excessively violent, even for you.”

Holly descended to earth, barely making a footprint in the snow. “Nope. It’s more of a science. Cos tapa. The quick foot. An ancient martial art based on the movements of predatory animals.”

“Look!” said Foaly, pointing with some urgency into the vast steel-gray gloom. “Someone who cares!”

Artemis was glad of the banter, as it distracted from his loosening grasp on the logical world. While the fairies enjoyed their customary back-and-forth, he allowed his spine to curve for a moment, let his shoulders dip, but someone noticed.

“Artemis?”

Holly, of course.

“Yes, Captain Short.”

“‘Captain’? Are we strangers, Artemis?”

Artemis coughed into his hand. She was probing. He needed to ward off her attentions. Nothing to do but say the number aloud.

“Strangers? No. We’ve known each other for more than five years.”

Holly took a step toward him, her eyes wide with concern behind the orange curve of visor.

“This five thing, Arty. I’m worried about that. You’re not yourself.”

Artemis swept past her to the container that rested on the floor of the crate.

“Who else would I be?” he said brusquely, cutting short any possible discussion on the state of his mental health. He waved impatiently at the ice haze as though it were deliberately obstructing him, then pointed his mobile phone at the container, zapping the computerized locks. The container looked and sounded like a regular household refrigerator, squat, pearlescent, and humming.