Two days later, Milo trudged back into Penhaligon’s Emporium looking like he’d been dragged through the Serpentine backwards. His trainers still squelched with every step, leaving faint wet footprints on the worn Persian rug. Lettuce fragments clung stubbornly to his hoodie, and a single breadcrumb—now thoroughly soggy—dangled from his sleeve like a defeated flag of surrender. The bell above the door gave a half-hearted tinkle, as if even it was tired of his dramatic entrances.
