"You have a lousy way of sweet-talking a man, Bespoke," Corrival said from where he stood at the sink, leaning over it and swallowing hard until the urge to throw up what he'd just drank had passed. Fortunately, his hangover was easing at the same time, as he knew it would. The cure was hard to get down, but it worked. "Either that, or it's a wonderful way. I haven't decided yet."

Ordinarily, he would have said no. Ordinarily, Ghastly wouldn't have been there to ask. This wasn't ordinary. Not ordinary because Ghastly was there, and there were things that needed to be discussed, and Corrival had to see Skulduggery. Not just to talk to him, but to see him in action. To see the evidence for or against for himself. He'd had his night of running. Now it was time to face up.

Corrival, when he looked inward, found he had the will to do that. The desire, even.

"Over there." Corrival pointed toward the tall glass on the counter, filled with something which looked vile, smelled vile, and had a raw egg floating on top. "Just like Larrikin and Vex with that wager in Marseilles."

The one where they had had to set up a meeting-point all but in a chicken coop and Corrival had walked in on a bet about who could down the most raw eggs without throwing up. Corrival's boots had lost.

He straightened up a bit, took a breath, and found he had the wits to think and a relieving lack of pain. Right then. While Ghastly drank and waited for the hangover to recede, Corrival got ready--freshening himself up a bit, gathering his coat, pulling on his boots (those boots, with only a moment of looking at them). By the time Ghastly was ready, Corrival was waiting by the door to the garage.

"Hurry up, Bespoke," he said briskly, taking back his mobile. "We've got the world to save. Again."