"Ashleh," he repeats a little helplessly. And tries not to look hurt about not shaking hands; Feuilly knows Joly's anti-germ regimens enough to at least try not to read anything into it but that.

Right. Feeding the dogs. Hector. Lady. He makes it last a little longer than it needs to, for his sake as much as for--Ashleh's. He finds time to pull on trousers himself, too. Probably a good idea.

But, right. "So, um--Ashleh--you, um. The person I was expecting you to be," he says carefully, "is named Harry Percy. From, um. England, Northumberland? Alnwick and Warkworth?" Do the names stir any recognition?