minutes last night ‘e might ‘ave been ‘ome, back in ‘is
own world. Now, me, I don’t believe we went from one
world to another that simple, even if that was a peculiar
boat full of mighty odd-lookin’ ‘umans. The birds were
sharp enough lookin’, though. I’ll give ’em that.”
Roseroar gave him a look of distaste. ” Y’ all are disgustin’.
Yo friend is heartsick and all yo can thank of, yo scummy
little degenerate pervert, is intercourse.”
“Blow it out your striped arse, you self-righteous bitch!
I’d swear on me mother’s ‘ead that ‘alf an army’s done
proper work under that tail.”
Roseroar lunged for the otter. A ghost of a voice made
her pause.
“Don’t. Please.” For the first time in days a familiar
face swung around to face both of them. “It’s not worth it.
Not on my behalf.”
Roseroar reluctantly returned to her station behind the
wheel. “Blimey, mate,” said Mudge softly, “you really
do think we went over into your world, don’t you?”
He nodded. “It was in the song. I didn’t mean it to
happen that way, but yes, I think we crossed over. And I
was too drunk to do anything about it.”
“Maybe we’re still in yo world,” said Roseroar.
Mudge noticed movement in the water. ” ‘Ang on. I
think I know ‘ow to find out.” He headed toward the bow.
Jon-Tom rose, swayed slightly. Roseroar put out a hand
to steady him but he waved her off with a smile. “Thanks.
I’m okay now. Stone-cold sober.”
“Yo drunkenness did come from yo song, then?”
“Something else I didn’t plan on. It’s worn off. That’s
why I don’t think we’re still in my world. The good wears