Some time later, Fell finds himself back in the bar, eyes scanning the room absently as he works his way through a glass of wine punch.  There's a sheet of foolscap on the bar in front of him, and every now and then he pauses to scribble some more notes on it, making them vanish almost as quickly as they appear.  The meeting with the Coopers has ( Read more... )

There's a thin, ratty-haired girl curled up on one of the Bar's armchairs, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady ( Read more... )

The man who walks into the bar is young-- perhaps twenty, give or take a year-- and wearing that singularly absent expression common to many academics. He's using what appears to be the flat wooden lid of a pot or bowl as a surface on which to write, on crude yellowish paper with a leaky fountain pen, a series of furiously scribbled notes ( Read more... )

"As I was going to Saint Ives ( Read more... )