"Not a demon," Francis says, a little reprovingly, though perhaps with a kind of light-headed humour as well. He certainly feels strangely giddy, even now, at what has happened. "Though what it was... I wonder..." But what it is he wonders, he does not say, but trails off into quiet as they reach the inn, offering up his own silent prayer of thanks.

Perhaps it is only the strangeness of the situation that makes the light from the inn's windows seem so unnaturally bright, the sound from inside echo so loudly when the door swings open. Now Francis is grateful for the other man's weight on his shoulder, a solid anchor against the sudden rush of brightness and life that washes over him like a wave.

To explain the situation is easier than he would have expected. The innkeeper simply nods and grunts, tosses his cloth over his shoulder and marches away to call over a man from where he sits beside the fire; this man, he tells them, is the night-watchman.