Alek tries to be nicer to Deryn the next morning, like letting her use the bathroom first, or allowing her to pass through the door first. He gets the feeling that's not really what she meant by treating her the same way as he would have treated Dylan.
"Cut it out, Alek," she'd said, punching him. "I said treat me like Dylan, not your elderly mother. Hurry up, you daftie."
So now Alek sits in the backseat of his limo, stuck in traffic and twiddling his thumbs. He has told Mr. Klopp to take them to a fair he saw on the way in, but at the rate this is going, they won't be there until midday.
"I don't suppose next time we could take a small car?" Deryn's staring out the window wistfully at a couple speeding by on a motorbike, weaving through the cars that are stuck. Bovril barks in agreement.
Alek agrees, too; they should have been there already.
And he's almost right, they move slowly, arriving at the carnival at half past eleven.
"I was going to offer you breakfast, but I guess you're going to have to settle for lunch," says Alek, leading her to a food cart. "Bratwurst?"
Deryn looks at him. "You're not buying me lunch," she says. "Dylan, remember?"
"No, this is just a friend getting lunch for a friend." Alek asks the man behind the cart for two sausages, and pays. "Miss Sharp," he says, handing her the bratwurst."
"Aleksander Ferdinand Fischer," Deryn teases back.
He swears he feels her body stiffen as he loops his arm through hers. He doesn't think anything of it, though.
"W-Would you hold Dylan like this?" stutters Deryn, and Alek pauses. Hearing her stutter is new.
"No, but you're not him," he says. "We're two friends, and I'm being gentlemanly. Is that so wrong?"