Mirk had wanted to check in on them as soon as the chill of autumn released him. He'd been on his way there, in fact, when he'd felt the first twinges of pain radiating from Samael at the back end of the long-term ward. After that, everything had gotten so confused and painful that the duty of tending to the remains of his family had completely slipped from his mind.

But the first thing he’d seen when he’d stumbled out of the heavily-shielded long-term ward room he’d collapsed in after speaking with Sharael was Armel filching lunch trays from the cart at the end of the hall. His cousin was still limping, but was much improved from when he'd last seen him. To his relief, Armel wasn’t bothered by his neglect of them during his illness. He had even been agreeable enough to put the trays back before leading Mirk up to the room on the fourth floor where Emir had stashed Henri and his cousins.

His family was in one of the larger rooms on the floor, used for managing the aftermath of particularly bloody battles, the dozen beds in each one separated by curtains whenever the aides had a spare moment to hang them once things settled down. There was no need for them then. His cousins had clustered all the beds close together at one end of the room, leaving the other half free to serve as a makeshift sitting room, the open windows bathing the cobbled together spare chairs and nightstands with sunlight and allowing a cool breeze to clear out some of the infirmary's perpetual stuffiness.

At present, no one was enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. All of Mirk's cousins were clustered around the bed Henri was propped up in, as if none of them could stand the thought of being out of arm's reach for too long. Henri was still much thinner than he'd been before everything had happened, his cheeks still sunken and covered with the beginnings of a beard, but his color had improved. He, along with the rest of the d’Avignons, was coming back to life. Against all odds.

Which made the matter of how Mirk was supposed to help his family make their way in the world again all the more pressing.

"I'm so sorry for being away, Uncle Henri," Mirk said, sitting down beside him on the side of his bed. "I'd meant to come right away, but I got sick, and then..."

The sympathetic smile Henri flashed him had some of its old spark in it too, the shy charm that he'd heard his Aunt Isabelle wax on to her sisters for hours about. "Yes, the healers who moved us here from Madame Beaumont's mentioned that. Are you well now?"

Mirk nodded, smiling in return. He didn't feel well, not at all. But it'd be better if Henri and his cousins didn't know that. And they didn't have the empathy to tell how hollow and confused he still felt. "Oh, yes. It was nothing bad, something that happens every year. How are you all settling in? I know this isn’t as comfortable as you're all used to. And it must be dull not having much to do."

Henri shrugged. "At least we can open the windows here. And it's been a great boon to the children, being around so many different kinds of mages to help them learn their crafts. You know I wasn't blessed with much potential. I'm no use in teaching them," he said, gesturing vaguely around at the cobbled remains of their family. His Aunt Christine's young children were on the floor beside Henri's bed, the sad collection of toys the healers had brought them lying neglected between them, while Claire and Inès sat listening on the edge of the nearest bed, their heads held down. Armel was the only one willing to be further away, in a chair where he could both listen and keep a close watch on the door.

"Who's been helping?"

Henri's pleasant smile went brittle. "They found a water mage for Inès. And though Armel and Claire don't have the healing gift, the Earth mages have still found lessons for them to work on. And...well. They've both been on a...martial streak."

Claire spoke then, lifting her head and staring at her father with a grim determination that was out of place on her round, girlish face. "We want to be able to help protect you, Papa."

"It's my responsibility now," Armel added. "I want to be able to do more than just teleport away the next time something happens."

"Apparently, my children have decided I'm completely defenseless," Henri joked, though there was a certain note of guilt in his voice. Mirk felt for Henri, for how trying a situation his uncle had found himself in, suddenly the sole protector of five children overflowing with magical potential while he had little to offer in return. That aside, Mirk doubted Henri had ever considered the tact and the effort it took to raise children on his own. His uncle had always been preoccupied by this work and his ledgers, leaving the task of training his children on how to behave in polite society to their mother.

In a way, Mirk felt the same. Although he'd spent years shadowing his mother, he felt ill-prepared for the task of restoring their family. It may have been better if their positions had been reversed, and he'd been left to tend to the children while Henri nurtured the remaining connections their family had with the other noble mages. Henri had never been a social man, but he was a man of business, with a sound and reasonable head on his shoulders that was unswayed by sentiment when gold was on the table. As much as the older nobles complained about business not being a respectable hobby for a man of rank, their disdainful commentary also made it clear that commerce was quickly overtaking fighting and magecraft as a path to accumulating influence in society. Henri would have been able to do much more with that gift of his than Mirk could do with empathy and instinct alone.

The thought sparked an idea, something Mirk could offer to his uncle to make him feel a little less useless. "Speaking of fighting, uncle, there might be a way you can help with that, even if you can't do it yourself. And maybe it might make your spending some time in the City worthwhile. For all of us."

Henri shot him a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"The K'maneda is an army. They go through weapons like water. From what I've seen, half the swords they give the men when they join are useless. Unless you come with your own sword, you're left with nothing. The men Genesis oversees have swords without any enchantments on them at all."

"Common practice," Henri said, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap over his blanket. "Artificers and enchanters aren't cheap. Neither are the raw materials."

"No, I'm sure they're not. But, honestly, even the swords I see half the infantrymen carrying in the noble divisions don't have the basic enchantments you put on all of your weapons on them. It might be because the noble K'maneda don't get on well with the English guilds."

"Maybe. The guilds are jealous. Every year, the artificers want more dues from me. And the enchanters are even worse," Henri said with a sigh.

"But I imagine that they wouldn't have as many problems getting supplies if they were asking for them from someone outside of the English guilds. And if you weren't selling only to the French guilds, they might leave you to do what you like. I know that you prefer to make bespoke weapons, not common ones, but..."

Henri laughed, weakly, though it triggered a coughing fit that it took him a minute to overcome. "Isabelle spoiled me so much, God bless her. Let me dabble and do whatever I wanted. But...well. I suppose it wouldn't hurt for me to start trying to make real money with the business, since Is...since there's no one to scold me over how unfitting it is for a Dufort to be messing about in it. It'd take time to change the workshop to accommodate it, of course. And my mages won't be happy doing more tedious work. But as long as I can keep my noble clients, they shouldn't be too upset. I'll need more smiths to handle the mundane work. Then there's the materials..."

Mirk could practically see the tallies of numbers running through his uncle's head. He smiled, reaching out and patting Henri's clasped hands. "So things might not be so bad, yes?"

Henri nodded. But midway through the gesture, he thought of something else, something that made him clench his hands together. "My mages. I had to put them all on furlough. I have enough from Isabelle to keep paying them for another three months. And since I have the post now, I suppose I can start trying to commission them new orders and they can do the work in their own ateliers. But the workshop will need repairs, and I don't know how many..."

Mirk pressed his uncle's hands more tightly, projecting the faintest spark of sympathy to him along with the gesture. "I have Jean-Luc's accounts. You don't have to worry."

"But that's not my money, Mirk," Henri said, his expression turning grave. "I...I should go to my own family. They won't want to keep the shop up. They always wanted me working the Teleporters Guild's ledgers instead. But...it's...now that Isabelle..."

Adamant, Mirk shook his head. "You'll always be my uncle, Henri. Jean-Luc would have wanted you to have it. He always looked so happy, when he saw all of us together..."

Mirk wished he hadn't evoked the memory. The night before everything had gone wrong, the first dinner where all the d'Avignons had gathered together under the same roof without exception since before Mirk had been sent to the abbey. Even his father had been there, looking ill-at-ease and out-of-place in the giant chair the servants had to haul in from the cellar to accommodate him. Mirk had ended up at his grandfather's right hand side, at the head of the table, first in line among his younger cousins.

He hadn't felt right there. But it was where the servants had led him, where his grandfather had been waiting for him, surveying all the children and Mirk's aunts and uncles with a quiet, thoughtful smile. And then Jean-Luc had turned that smile on Mirk, as he leaned his staff against the side of the table in favor of picking up his fork and knife, a knowing gleam in his eyes. I never would have thought we'd come this far, he'd said, leaning in close to be certain Mirk heard him. But you, my boy, you'll take them even farther. I can feel it.

In the space of less than a full day's time, half of those seated at the table, Jean-Luc included, had been dead.

The touch of Henri's hand on his own startled Mirk out of the memory. His uncle looked as lost as Mirk felt. "I won't drain the ledgers, Mirk. I promise. We'll...we'll sort something out. I'll get the workshop up and running as soon as I'm well. Though..."

"Though?"

"The men Madame Beaumont sent to rescue us, Black Banner. They got us out, but we were running all the way until we crossed the Loire. Those...things that were hunting us might still be there. It won't be safe for the children and I to go back on our own."

Mirk thought this over, chewing on his lip. "It may cost us a little, but someone here should be able to help."

"Can't you just call in a favor? These are your friends. I thought."

"Things are different here than they are at home. There are different rules," Mirk said, shaking his head. "Asking them to do it for free would be taking advantage of them, and I wouldn't want to ruin my reputation here. They were paid to protect us before, after all."

"Ah. I suppose you have a point," Henri said. "It's...everything used to sort itself out on its own, before. At least, it felt that way."

It had. Whenever he'd needed something before coming to the K'maneda, a servant had appeared with it a few days later, the gold and the means through which the need had been satisfied going entirely unmentioned. New clothes replaced last season's in his wardrobe without Mirk needing to request them. Meals made of the freshest ingredients arrived at the appointed hour without Mirk ever having to ask. The coach was ready within the hour whenever he or his mother wished to go somewhere, and their lodgings were always secure by the time they'd reached their destination. Everything just...happened.

And he'd been too oblivious and spoiled to think of all the work needed to make his life so gentle, so carefree. He'd been too preoccupied by the lessons his mother and tutors were trying to drill into him to think of anything but himself. Now he had to do both halves at once. Alone. Again, Mirk mustered up a smile for Henri and his cousins. "I'll take care of everything. None of you have to worry. The K'maneda...well, they're a little rough, but if I'd ever wanted good tutors in politics and money, there's no one more suited to it than they are."

Henri returned his strained smile with a rueful one of his own. "I mean you no offense, Mirk, but I think you'd make a rather poor mercenary."

The comment startled Mirk into a genuine laugh. "Oh, of course. But if there's one thing Jean-Luc and mother taught me well, what you know isn't nearly as important as who. And there are many helpful people in the K'maneda. Provided you approach them in the right way."

"I'll have to take your word on that," Henri said. "I'm stuck in bed for another month at least, or so the healers tell me. And they're all worried about how much of their potential Claire and Inès drained. And...oh, I remember now, that was the other thing I wanted to tell you. The healers tested Edme and Honoré for magic when they were checking for other illnesses. We were right. Honoré has the empathic gift. Still growing, so we don't know how strong it'll be yet, but it's there."

Mirk looked down at the boy, who'd stopped his listless playing about with a wooden train at the sound of his name. He wasn't sure whether to be glad or feel sorry for him. As of late, his own empathy had brought him much more pain than it had joy. Curious, Mirk reached down and pressed the back of his hand to Honoré's cheek, projecting a spark of reassurance and good cheer to him. The boy's eyes lit up and he eagerly grabbed Mirk's hand with both of his own. What Honoré projected in return was jumbled and indistinct, but was positive nevertheless. "Yes, I can feel it," Mirk said to Henri. "What about Edme?"

"Chaotic fire magic. Like his father." Henri said the words with a touch of sadness that made both Mirk and Honoré's smiles fade. It would have been better if Edme had been blessed with earth magic like his mother, to make it easier to forget what had happened. But Providence made no mistakes. "It makes us better rounded, I suppose. And at least Armel got the teleporting gift from my side. There hasn't been a teleporting mage in the family before, has there? Though your father and sister..."

With their wings and their ability to move through the light in the same way that Genesis could move through the shadows, provided they had enough potential, the teleporting gift was almost irrelevant to angels. Mirk refused to dwell on either the missing members of his family or Genesis, instead watching as Honoré continued to squeeze his hand and make half-formed projections at him as he spoke with Henri. "God has blessed us all. Despite everything."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"If I do my best, and you do yours, I think we'll be all right," Henri said. More than trying to comfort him, it sounded like his uncle was trying to convince himself not to be upset.

"Is there anything else I can bring you, uncle? Are they feeding you well?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk caught Claire and Inès exchanging a pointed look. "It's fine," Henri insisted, before either of them could speak. "It's better than what we had in the workshop. But they do seem determined to keep us on soft and bland food. That's fine for me, considering, but the children are still growing. Though I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee myself. But I gather that might be a rare treat around here. Expensive habits die hard, I suppose."

Mirk knew what Henri meant better than his uncle probably knew. If things ever stopped going wrong one after another, Mirk was determined to set himself to the task of learning to cook. He'd had enough stale buns and boiled vegetables for a lifetime. "I understand completely. Really, I'm glad you're all here. You'll make me do a little work for once. It's hard to be productive when you have no one to work for but yourself."

Which wasn't entirely true. He did have someone else to look after. Again, Mirk made himself focus in on the warm faces of his family instead of brooding on the lifeless one still waiting for him up on the fifth floor.

"Maybe some books would be nice too," Henri continued. "If there are any here, that is. The healers brought some grimoires from somewhere for the children to learn from, but magical theory all goes straight over my head."

"Yes, I can go down to the library and find something. What do you like to read?"

Henri laughed, sheepishly. "Oh, absolute garbage. Adventures, comedies, poems...anything other than magic, really."

"The library here is bigger than you’d think. It shouldn't be too hard," Mirk said as he got up from the side of the bed, carefully detaching Honoré's hand from his with a final projection of encouragement. But before he could begin to say his goodbyes and move to leave, to tend to all his family's needs before the needs of the infirmary sucked him back in, Claire spoke up.

"You said you'd ask, Papa," she insisted, glaring at her father.

"Your cousin's already doing a lot for us," Henri replied, shrinking away from his daughter's scowl.

"But you said!" Armel interjected from across the room.

"What is it, Claire?" Mirk asked. "It’s really no trouble."

"Papa said that he'd ask you to find a sword master here to train us," Claire said, focusing her gleaming eyes on Mirk. "This whole place is full of fighters. That's what the healers kept saying when I asked. There has to be someone here who can train me and Armel. At least until we get back to Bordeaux and I can start with Master Claudio again."

"Master Claudio?" Henri gave a choked-off gasp. "You've been training with him?"

"Where do you think I learned enough to fight off those demons from?" Claire rolled her eyes, scornfully. "You really don't pay attention to anything other than your artificing and your ledgers. Mama had been giving me gold for lessons ever since I was five."

Henri wilted a little under her scrutiny, his head thunking against the stone wall behind the bed as he leaned back to stare at the ceiling. "I really am a fool..."

"Can you get me a lady sword master?" Claire asked Mirk, some excitement coming back onto her face. "You can get whoever for Armel, but I want a woman. The healers said that they teach all the women here to fight too."

"Ah...well...sort of," Mirk said, thinking. He hated going against his uncle's wishes, but his time in the K'maneda had taught him the utility of everyone learning to fight a little, even women. And he could think of more than a handful of women that could rival a man in combat, though most of them used their fists and their wits rather than blades. "I'll see what I can do, Claire. But I won't make any promises."

"But you can promise that you'll try, at least? Yes?" Claire goaded him.

"I suppose I can do that much. But only if you promise to listen to your father from now on."

Claire gave an eager nod, though Mirk suspected she'd wriggle her way out of her end of the bargain at the earliest opportunity. Claire had always been the most headstrong of all his cousins, the complete opposite of her sister Inès, who was still hugging herself and looking down at her swinging feet on the edge of the bed beside her sister. It was strange, Mirk thought, how it always seemed to be the case that gifts were never equally distributed among siblings. "The rest of you should too," Mirk said, taking a final look around at his family. "Remember, things are easier when we all work together instead of against each other, yes?"

That earned him murmured replies from everyone, deferential and thoughtful nods. Even though the remaining members of his family were staying close physically, Mirk felt as if their ordeal had put an insurmountable gap between their hearts. Every one of them seemed lost in their own guilt, their own worries, unable to trust themselves to lean fully on one another. Mirk did what he could. He bent down and pressed his hand to Honoré's cheek again for a moment, projecting a sense of reassurance and calmness along with the touch. His young cousin's face lit up and he began to giggle. "I'm sorry to have to run off again right away," Mirk said to them all. "They'll be expecting me downstairs again soon. I've already been away much longer than is usually tolerated."

Henri sat up straighter in bed. Mirk's presence seemed to have granted him a kind of reprieve, one that would come to an end as soon as he stepped back out in the hall. It made Mirk regret leaving them. "The K'maneda don't seem like the sort of people who make much time for pleasantries and sociability."

Mirk forced out a laugh. "Not even a bit. But I'll come back soon, I promise. With books. And coffee, and better food. And news on your training," he added, when he saw the pout forming on Claire's face. "Everyone take care."

Again, all the members of his family gave their own murmured pleasantries in response, most of them attempting to put on a brave face as well. As Mirk went to the door, he paused to squeeze Armel's arm, a small show of thanks for being diligent keeping watch on the door while the rest of them had been preoccupied. Only once he was alone back out in the hall did Mirk allow himself to deflate, hunching over and wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to find some manner of comfort.

He wasn't meant for any of it. His mother and grandfather had done their best to teach him how to be the head of a family, how to be proud and graceful and clever, but it was all too little, too late. All he had to work with was instinct, instinct that didn't always serve him and his family well, unschooled as it was. But did he have any choice other than to continue? He'd been so overjoyed at first to learn that he wasn't alone, that he hadn't been the only d'Avignon to survive, that he hadn't considered the consequences of it. They were all becoming dreadfully clear now that he was faced with the concrete duties that came along with being the head of the family. How to keep the ledgers from becoming depleted, how to send his uncle and cousins home, how to rebuild their reputation...

"Mirk! There you are!"

It was Yule. Mirk cleared his throat and made himself straighten back up. The older healer didn't look annoyed for once. Instead, he was grinning. The reason for his smile was walking silently down the hall toward him in Yule's wake, a pace behind and to the right. A djinn, his bearing regal and upright, his hands held primly behind his back.

"Ah, Yule...I'm so sorry for leaving you all alone again...you must be so busy getting everyone settled in downstairs again..." Mirk mumbled as he studied the djinn in his peripheral vision. He seemed to be of a different sort from the ones the K'maneda kept. Rather than being lithe and narrow, that djinn was muscular and big about the shoulders, with darker skin and thicker hair. He'd have given even the bigger men of the Seventh a run for their money in a fight.

Impatiently, Yule waved Mirk off. "He says he's here for you. Letter. Insisted on delivering it by hand instead of leaving it down in the waiting room."

Without further prompting, the djinn approached Mirk, dropping into a deferential bow with a grace that was at odds with his bulky frame, holding out a letter. Swallowing hard, Mirk took it from him with a nod and flipped the envelope over, his eyes going immediately to its seal. He didn't recognize it: a cross with a rose in bloom wrapped around it. Mirk had been hoping against hope that it'd be another letter from Madame Beaumont, sent by a guild djinn due to Monsieur Am-Hazek being otherwise occupied. He should have known better. The djinn before him was too finely appointed, in silk and velvet with touches of silver, to be a dedicated messenger. The largest piece of silver on him was his collar, as wide and thick as those of Ravensdale's djinn, but not so tight and ugly.

Mirk opened the letter. It was in French, which didn't come as a surprise. Though the handwriting was so ornate and flowing that it took Mirk a few tries to make sense of the words.

Most Respected Seigneur,

I wish to once more convey my deepest sympathy, on behalf of all the member guilds of the Circle, for the loss of your grandfather. It is clear to us all now, after more investigation and conversation with other members of Serge Montigny's retinue, that your family was grievously wronged. We wish, above all else, to put this unfortunate incident behind us.

In that spirit, we request your presence at a private meeting of the Circle, to be held a fortnight from now. Although I am certain you personally had nothing to do with it, an alarming spell has been placed on several leading members of the Montigny family by Imperial servants. We have exhausted all our means to contact the Empire, to no avail. No recourse remains open to us to resolve this matter other than to turn to you for aid.

On behalf of the remaining members of the Montigny household, I humbly request your assistance in this matter at the next meeting. Laurent Montigny has agreed that all ill will between your families will be undone, should you be able to lift the spell. In the spirit of cooperation, he has sent along his memorial stone, along with the family's personal healer's report on the mark that has been left on each of his uncles' chests, which I have been assured is key to undoing the spell that plagues them.

The meeting will take place at noon at Mme. Polignac's residence in Limoges, to preserve the dignity of those affected by the spell. Owing to your condition, all travel will, of course, be arranged for you and your two attendants.

On behalf of all the members of the Circle, and personally, I wish to again extend to my condolences.

Respectfully,

Seigneur Herbert d'Aumont, Grand Master, Le Phare de la Prospérité

Mirk did his best to keep his hands steady as he read the letter over again. His memories of the recording trapped in Laurent's memorial stone were hazy, but he did remember thinking that the other members of the Montigny family who'd been forced to bear witness to Serge's execution had all seemed ill, somehow. Something must have been done to them all before Laurent had begun recording the events. Something that he was now being called upon to undo, despite having no knowledge of that terrible brand of magic. Doing his best to compose himself, Mirk looked up at the djinn, who was patiently awaiting his response, his head held down.

"Ah, Monsieur...?"

The djinn's polite mask budged, momentarily betraying his puzzlement at being asked his name. "Er-Izat, seigneur. At your service."

That explained why the djinn looked so different from all the others, Am-Hazek included. He was from a different kinship line. "Ah...will Seigneur d'Aumont be expecting an immediate reply, Monsieur Er-Izat?"

"You may reply at your leisure, seigneur. However, you would need to send your reply by your own courier, if you wish to consider the matter further."

It wasn't exactly a barb — djinn weren't the sort of people who dealt in scorn for another person's circumstances, owing to the varied and subjugated nature of their own. Moreover, Mirk got the impression that Er-Izat was less disdainful of him and more perplexed by his mannerisms. Being Seigneur d'Aumont's personal djinn meant that Er-Izat mostly had to mostly deal with haughty Grand Masters and other grandees rather than wincing healers who'd been wearing the same rumpled and blood-stained robes for the past three days. Nevertheless, the point stood: Mirk would have to decide then and there what to do. He didn't want to waste either the gold or the time on hiring a djinn of his own to send his response, one of a fine enough caliber to not be insulting to someone of Seigneur d'Aumont's rank. Mirk sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he thought.

He needed to help his family. It was his responsibility. Just as he was the one who'd been responsible for their downfall. Mending ties with the Montignys would guarantee his family's safety. And it stood a good chance of raising the Circle's opinion of him and his skills. There was only the matter of whatever magic the Imperial angels had put on the Montignys standing in the way, but Mirk had a good idea of who might be able to help him with that. Another thing that he didn't want to face. But he needed to, for the good of everyone involved.

"Please inform Seigneur d'Aumont that I'll be in attendance, monsieur. And tell him that I'll do my best to undo whatever magic is on the Montignys."

"As you wish, seigneur," Er-Izat replied, performing another low bow. As he straightened up, he summoned another letter and a small leather purse into existence with a twist of his hand, holding them out to Mirk. "The stone and the report, as the master promised."

Mirk took them from Er-Izat, not reacting fast enough to hide the dismay that came onto his face at the djinn's words. He knew that some nobles made their djinn address them in such a fashion, but he hadn't thought that Seigneur d'Aumont would be one of them. That was the way that Mirk imagined a man like Ravensdale, who he'd still yet to actually see in person, forced his dozens of battle-weary and sickly djinn to address him. "Thank you, Monsieur Er-Izat. Don't let me delay you any longer."

Again, confusion marred Er-Izat's composure as he performed another bow and turned to depart. Mirk hoped that he wouldn't report on his strangeness to Seigneur d'Aumont. Or on the way that Yule gave the djinn a very particular, appraising sort of once-over as he passed. The djinn had the sort of build that Mirk knew Yule favored, even if Er-Izat was more put together than most of the men Yule made off-color comments about to Mirk and Danu at the tavern. But, as Yule always said, there wasn't any harm in looking. Apparently.

"What was that all about?" Yule asked, once Er-Izat was out of earshot.

It felt like it took even more effort than usual for Mirk to get his mind to find the right English words again. "It's...the Imperial angels put a spell on the family of the lord who hurt mine. The Circle wants me to take it off them."

"The Circle?"

"I'm not sure if there's one in England. All the Grand Masters of the leading elemental guilds in France sit on it. They...manage things. Sort of. Between the guilds, and between the mages and the mortals. Like how the commanders of all the divisions sit on the Command Council here."

Yule snorted. "Are they also useless?"

"I...it's not my business, Yule. I never paid much attention to politics before." Mirk looked down at the two letters and the purse in his hands. "Grand-père used to be a member, even though he wasn't the head of the earth mages’ guild. It was something to do with the staff." Which he was also acutely aware of in that moment, though he couldn't feel its weight in the magicked pocket in his sleeve.

Yule's eyebrows shot up. "So are they asking you to take his place?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm sure they wouldn't want me if they could avoid it. I have the staff, but I don't know how to use it. And not everyone in the Circle was friends with grand-père. They just needed him and the staff, in a way. Like they need me now," Mirk added to himself, biting his lip.

"Well, they're not the only ones. I'd offer you a drink, but you've got other business first."

Mirk felt weary, even worse than he had when he'd first levered himself out of the long-term ward bed he'd taken refuge in last night. "What’s happened now?"

"Nothing terrible. That angel girl wants to talk to you again. Her brother's up and she's pitching a fit."

"Over what?"

"The boy doesn't speak English and she won't give him one of our translation charms. Won't let anyone in to check on his incision either. Something about all of us being too terrible for him to be around. She says he hasn't eaten or slept since he woke up."

In comparison to the rest of his problems, the situation with the angel boy seemed almost easy to manage. Which really said something about the web of predicaments he'd found himself caught in as of late. Mirk nodded to Yul, as he headed off in the direction of the long-term wing. He hadn't been able to feel any pain from the boy when he'd woken up himself, so hopefully it was nothing pressing. "I'll see what I can do. I'm sure it can't be as bad as this," Mirk added, as he tucked the two letters and the purse away in his pockets to be dealt with later.

Yule flashed him a grin. "Keep writing letters to whatever rich bastard is in charge of that djinn, though, even if you decide to let the other ones hang. Or, better yet, get your pet monster to free him. I wouldn't say no to seeing him around more often."

Mirk sighed. "Methinks you would say that..."

Clapping him on the shoulder, Yule fell into step beside Mirk as they made their way down to the third floor.