“All right, all right. Point taken.” Giles looked gloomily at a moth that had landed in his whisky. It flapped pathetically a few times in the amber liquid then seemed to give up the fight. He fished it out and tried to blow on it gently with the vague idea of drying it out, but a slight misjudgement resulted in it flying from his fingers and disappearing in the darkness. Not, unfortunately, of its own volition.
Giles raised his glass and drank a solemn toast to its passing. Then he gagged, realising he was drinking something the horrid little insect had very likely peed in.
* * * *
After Oz had stomped off to the guest room, Giles spent a restless night. Was he really being classist? Ungrateful?
He thought of Angie, and the way she’d smiled at the sight of him. Had there been a suspic
