He looked wearily at me. “Of course, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Delusions and so on. I don’t blame you. But thanks for the use of your ear.”
“I’m not quite sure what to think,” I answered. “Tell me, though, why are you hunting books?”
“Old books,” he said. “Grimoires. Treatises on magic. Morgan sent me here once.” His fist crashed on the table. “And I’ll find the way back for myself!”
I haven’t seen or heard from him for years. No one has. Well, people do disappear. Perhaps he disappeared to the place he spoke of—always assuming the story true, a matter in which I suspend judgment. I hope he did.
But meanwhile new storms are rising. It may be that we shall need Holger Danske again.