”Surely, miss. Is there anything else I can get for the gennleman? He seems a mite poorly.”
Malcolm was visibly pulling himself together. “Forgive me, inn keep,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand, “but I lost a dear brother not far from here. Drowned in the sea. I …hadn’t been back to Brighton since, you see.”
The innkeeper shook his head mournfully and hurried away to bring the dark beer and a steaming cup of tea. Margo sipped in silence while Malcolm regained his composure.
”I shouldn’t have come back,” he said quietly.
”Don’t the tourists come here on holiday?”
”Not often in February,” he smiled wanly. “If one of my guests desires a holiday at the seaside, I generally recommend the Isle of Wight or even Man. I’ve avoided Brighton. Particularly during February.”
The orbital blowup, Margo knew, had occurred in February, catching Atlantic coastlines in the middle of the night. The loss of life had been devastating even in the relatively sheltered English Channel.
Malcolm sipped his dark stout again. “You did very well just now,” he murmured. “I’m not accustomed to being rescued by someone I’m guiding. You kept me from considerable embarrassment out there. This,” he lifted the glass in a tiny salute and gestured at the inn, “was just what I needed: the shock of staying in persona to wake me up and the stout to deaden the hurt. Thank you.”
”I- It just seemed the right thing to do.”
A faint smile creased wan cheeks. “You’ve a good instinct, then. That’s important. More so than you might guess.” He drained the last of the stout, then took out his pocket watch. “If we’re to make that return train, we’d best be leaving.”