Deryn still can't believe she did that. Even hours after, she can still feel his lips on hers, the blood roaring in her ears. She's done insane, dangerous things, like jumping off bridges to smack the water below and climbing impossibly steep rock walls, but this one thing, so small and seemingly unimportant, is the craziest thing she's ever done.

The concert had been amazing, but her head had been so fuzzy and muddled she wouldn't have noticed if they sounded terrible. Despite the fact that it means nothing to Alek, she's still on cloud nine.

Now they're backstage with passes to meet the band, thanks to Alek's connections. Even Bovril looks animated. Practically royalty have their perks.

Catching a glimpse of Conan, Deryn grips Alek's arm, hard, and points. "It's him!"

Alek pushes her arm down. "It is," he says. "But it's still rude to point."

When Conan comes around to greet them, Deryn is bursting with excitement. Up close, he looks much more friendly. She can see the crinkles around his eyes from laughing, as he holds out a hand for them to shake, and he says the eagerly awaited:

"That's my dog."

Deryn blinks. Wait, what?

Alek looks just as confused as she does. "Sorry?" he says. "Bovril is your dog?"

Conan elbows the guitarist in the ribs, grinning. "Hey, d'you hear that, Grant?" he says. "They named him Bovril. I like it."

Grant nods. "Me, too."

She is so confused right now, her thoughts are muddled enough as they are. Looking down at Bovril, who is nuzzling his head against the singer's leg, she permits herself to believe that he is Conan Hobbes' dog. Deryn suddenly remembers the tag with the worn out lettering. "C.H. stands for Conan Hobbes," she says, comprehension dawning.

"Why did you say we named him?" asks Alek. "If he was yours, wouldn't he have a name?"

"He's the band's new addition," says the drummer, Angus. "Dr. B just got 'im."

"Dr. B?" Deryn and Alek say together.

A woman steps around the band and gives them a formal smile. She is dressed impeccably, in a grey suit that looks completely out of place at a Flying Lorises concert. "That would be me," says the woman, coolly. "Though, it would be Dr. Barlow to you." Squatting, she smooths back Bovril's fur, petting him gently.

"Bovril," Dr. Barlow murmurs, still stroking him. "That will do just fine."

"She's our manager," explains Grant. "Hey, thanks for finding him."

Deryn tells him it's no big deal, but she knows that now they have found Bovril's real owners, it means they'll be taking him back and she'll never see him again. And she is going to miss him, no matter what she said when they first met.

"I like you two," says Conan, scribbling something down on a sheet of paper. "I don't usually give fans our email, but you did find Bovril." He stuffs it in Deryn's hand. "Here. You keep in touch, alright?"

She looks at him, eyes wide. "Are you barking serious?" she exclaims, turning to Alek, who looks just as amazed. "Definitely!"

Bovril nudges at her foot, and Deryn bends down. "You'll be happy with them, beastie," she says quietly. "You're the newest flying loris."

"There's something about 'Bovril the loris' that has a certain ring to it." Alek is right next to her, crouched. She didn't even hear him beside her. "He's a smart one."

"One might even say he was perspicacious," says the doctor in her crisp, clipped tone, but Deryn doesn't dare ask what the word means. Each giving Bovril one last goodbye hug, Alek and Deryn stand, with heavy hearts, and say their farewells to the band, and their dog.

Bovril, the perspicacious loris.