Toby woke up in a shadowy room. A canopy of furs and fabrics bowed low over his head then folded in at the corners of a wooden frame. He appeared to be inside some kind of tent. Engulfing him almost to the point of suffocation, a bundle of thick blankets made up a nest in which he had slept. His body was sweating under the mass of covers, but his exposed face felt chilly. Underneath, a spindly makeshift bed held him inches off the ground. A mahogany writing desk was perched at the foot of the bed. There was no floor to the shelter; its interior was carpeted with grass.
‘Ah, you’ve made it,’ commented a deep voice, sounding pleased. It was a strange, foreign accent to Toby, but it sounded kind and grandfatherly.
A fold of furs at the end of the tent swayed open and made way for a plump ol
