For Enola was restlessly eager to atone for what had gone wrong. She was sat up in her bed, adjacent to Harry's own, her arms curled around her hitched-up legs, just staring at Harry's expressionless face. He might as well have been a deformed sort of mannequin. There was nothing ... not a twitch, not a change of colour in his skin, nothing to indicate life at all, beyond the steady puff of breath from his smashed nose.