James, his dark hair wildly untidy, coming toward them across the grass. He held a stack of charred paper in his hand. “I have just,” he said, by way of greeting, “received a seventh fire-message from my father.” He shuffled through the pages. “In this one, he says they are running late and they are ten minutes away. In this one, they are nine minutes away. In this one, they are eight minutes away. In this one…” “They are seven minutes away?” Matthew guessed. James shook his head. “No, in this one he wants to know if we have enough mustard.” “What would he have done if we didn’t?” Cordelia
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