“Dear Mr Cavendish,” Niall said, his words coated in the same sort of sugary sweet veneer as the confections for which he was so well renowned. “How nice of you to —”

“Do not speak, you pernicious freak,” Cavendish said loudly and forcefully. He took a couple of steps around, his eyes floating up and down the store shelves, inspecting the inventory. It was just for show, really. Niall knew that. It was Mr Cavendish’s hands that were doing all of the real work. Folded neatly behind the back of his ancient tweed suit, his fingers made nearly imperceptible movements. They were working. Hunting, snooping, exploring. Mr Cavendish stopped, and sniffed again.

“Roseweed,” he whispered, glancing up to make eye contact with Niall. “An evil deed.”

“Now, good sir,” Niall replied in an impetuous tone. “It is well documented that Roseweed is perfectly harmless in small amounts.”

“Small amounts,” Mr Cavendish repeated, “That’s what counts.”

Mr Cavendish held out a hand, palm up.

“A sample, if it please you.”