"Thank you again," said Faust, who thankfully could not hear Clara's comments about sweaters. "Truly." And if he did get his hands on that shrinking, shirking relative of Eliza's, why, God help him.

Should Clara and Aradia head over to the address, they'd find a run-down apartment building in Islington, which looked as though it housed perhaps seven occupants at a maximum. The shrubbery looked like it was dying -- if, that is, it wasn't already dead. The mailbox was overstuffed, but when a woman came out of the front door, she shoved a letter or two into one of the slots.

"Keep telling them that weird German guy doesn't live here any more. Ought to just march down Bachman myself and shove these in his face. No respect for people's time."