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He
drummed
his
fingers
on
the
table
,
although
the
sound
was
surprisingly
muted
.
’
Sorry
,
’
said
Cutwell
.
’
I
can
’
t
get
the
hang
of
treacle
sandwiches
,
either
.
’
’
I
reckon
the
interface
is
moving
at
a
slow
walking
pace
,
’
said
Mort
,
licking
his
fingers
absent
-
mindedly
.
’
Can
’
t
you
stop
it
by
magic
?
’
Cutwell
shook
his
head
.
’
Not
me
.
It
’
d
squash
me
flat
,
’
he
said
cheerfully
.
’
What
’
ll
happen
to
you
when
it
arrives
,
then
?
’
’
Oh
,
I
’
ll
go
back
to
living
in
Wall
Street
.
I
mean
,
I
never
will
have
left
.
All
this
won
’
t
have
happened
.
Pity
,
though
.
The
cooking
here
is
pretty
good
,
and
they
do
my
laundry
for
free
.
How
far
away
did
you
say
it
was
,
by
the
way
?
’
’
About
twenty
miles
,
I
guess
.
’
.
Cutwell
rolled
his
eyes
heavenwards
and
moved
his
lips
.
Eventually
he
said
:
’
That
means
it
’
ll
arrive
around
midnight
tomorrow
,
just
in
time
for
the
coronation
.
’
’
Whose
?
’
’
Hers
.
’
