They put him in the largest room they could clear up on the long-term ward, recruiting a team of aides to shuffle the three grumbling and sore men they evicted off down the hall. It was all right, Danu assured him, when she saw Mirk try to muster the will to protest. Their injuries were physical, a broken leg and some bruised ribs and a shrapnel wound to the back. They didn't need the shielding on the room like he did. The explanation didn't make Mirk feel any better, but he didn't have the strength to argue with her.

Or with Yule. Or Emir, or Eva, who arrived along with a healer she knew from the Tenth to deal with his missing teeth. A cheerful woman named Polly, who chatted with him the whole while she was digging around in his mouth with her fingers, unbothered by how this meant that he couldn't reply. Once she'd come and gone, Yule took her place in the chair nearest his bedside, finger-combing his hair to evaluate whether there was anything that could be done to help it.

By the time Yule had finished, bald patches covered a third of Mirk's head, and all the older healer could do was sigh and tell him he might have a soap that could make it grow back faster. Mirk did his best to nod and smile, with the excuse that he really needed to invest in a good wig anyway, but his heart wasn't in it. He was too worried. Worried by the ring of concerned and frustrated faces surrounding his bed, and by how his grandfather's staff was still warm against his palms.

When Genesis appeared, it was without warning: one moment there was no one beside the supply cabinet in the corner of the room, then he was there, Fatima holding onto his arm with the barest tips of her fingers. She moved away from him the second the shadows cleared, shuddering and making a hand gesture Mirk recognized from Ilae Kasim in his father's guard. Protection against the evil eye. "I hate your magic," Fatima muttered, as she limped over to the only vacant chair left, at the foot end of his bed, beside Eva. "Like scorpions made of ice..."

Genesis didn't reply. He was deep in thought, rifling through a book he pulled from the breast pocket of his overcoat. Mirk's stomach sank. It was Jean-Luc's journal. There was now a whole collection of papers tucked in among its pages, more than just Genesis's usual mage parchment.

Even though Fatima sat down, she still leaned forward in her chair, staring at Mirk intently, her hands folded on the head of her cane like she was prepared to jump up at the slightest provocation. "This is all you've got?" she asked Genesis, ignoring his attempts at ignoring her. "Good work getting the commander, but the rest of them? I suppose he's as good as three or four normal healers, but I was still expecting better out of you," she said, with a wave of her hand in Mirk's direction.

When Genesis finally responded, he didn't look up from Jean-Luc's journal. "I believe they will be...adequate for your purposes. At the present moment."

"And what are your purposes, exactly?" Emir interjected. He looked more put out by Genesis's mere presence than he was by Fatima's dismissal of him and the other healers. "Who did you bring me? And what are you planning on doing with him? I want all of it this time. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

"He will make his own decisions," Genesis said, closing the book with a snap. Something about Emir’s questioning bothered him, Mirk thought. It was in the way the shadows thickened behind him, the way his face shifted into one of his defensive, humorless not-quite-smiles, only for as long as it took Genesis to force it back to its customary blankness.

"Tell us," Emir insisted. "That stunt should have been impossible."

Genesis settled back on his heels, turning Jean-Luc's journal over in his hands. Though he was looking down at the book, Mirk suspected he wasn't seeing it. His eyes were flicking back and forth, reading a different book in his mind. When he spoke, the unnatural pauses that littered his speech were longer than usual, his accent thicker, low and hissing and heavy with some emotion that Mirk couldn't identify.

"It is a...complicated matter. I have needed to consult several sources to confirm my suspicions. His family was not...forthcoming with information about the staff. Or about the rest of it. Nor was...anyone else."

When no one replied, Genesis made himself continue, the shadows growing darker behind him. "I cannot promise absolute accuracy. His magic involves the convergence of several...elements. There is the...angelic blood. And then there is the staff. I have no...conclusive answers as to what controls it. Or its definite origin, or the limits of its potential. Jean-Luc d'Avignon, according to his own...recollections, performed several otherwise impossible feats with it, ranging from healing to...growing. This was the typical result. A week to several months of incapacity. As well as minor physical ailments."

Mirk didn't exactly think of the effects of the staff as minor, but Genesis wasn't an empath. He couldn't feel the piercing cold, the terrible, wan thinness of everything like the other healers could. And Genesis was accustomed to ignoring pain, even if he could have felt it, through some miracle. Mirk decided not to interrupt him, lest he break the momentum Genesis was gathering the longer he spoke.

"Jean-Luc was not clear on what power controls it. Only that it is a...woman of some sort. And that it came from a certain tree in a...certain forest. That I have been unable to locate despite searching extensively. On its own, this is a...considerable asset. But there is a third part. The...matter of the stewards of the realm."

"Stewards of the realm?" Fatima prompted, when Genesis fell silent, staring back down at the book in his hands and reading the one in his head again. "Never heard of them."

"A...manner of mage that is very rare. And...limited, in some manner that I cannot account for. When one dies, another appears. I have only been able to locate a few records of their existence. They are...folk tales, mainly. And the word of Jan Komor."

Emir was the only one present who frowned at the name. "Jan Komor? I thought he was dead. He hasn't been around since the City moved to England."

"He was alive until...recently. Living on the Continent under the name of Jean Moineau."

Mirk coughed, propping himself up higher in bed. "Father Jean?"

Slowly, Genesis nodded. "He had...many names. And ways of presenting himself."

"But Father Jean was from Marseilles. And he'd never heard of the K'maneda before..."

"He lied."

All the strength drained from Mirk, as he flopped back into the nest of pillows Danu had made around him to help him sit up. He stared up at the ceiling, at a loss for words. But he heard Genesis hiss to himself in frustration. And heard Emir shift in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

Emir spoke before Genesis could. "Senkov is involved in this too, isn't he? I should have known we'd never get rid of that lunatic..."

"Yes," Genesis said. "But it is not...relevant to the matter at hand. Jan was the one who knew of the stewards. And it is his term. Thus its...inexactness. Other terms have been suggested, but they are largely connected to individuals. As it was thought to be an individual phenomenon rather than any sort of...general classification. But I believe it must not be limited to one individual in one locality."

"Get to the point already," Yule said. Mirk wearily let his head fall to the right, so that he could see him seated across the bed from Genesis. Both his arms and legs were crossed. Everyone in the room looked frustrated, he noticed, as he scanned as many of their faces as he could without moving. Which matched the emotions he could feel radiating from his fellow healers. He wished they'd strengthen their shields, but didn't have the will to ask for it.

"These mages have a...particularly strong connection to the realm. There is a certain range of similarities among them, which he has demonstrated. They react...violently to teleportation. And they have other illnesses that correspond to seasons, in relation to the place they consider their...primary residence. Moreso than the average earth mage. But this is where the similarities among them end, aside from them...each being a specialist in a certain area of magic relating to the...manipulation of the Earth or its...inhabitants. The one that Jan Komor knew of was a smith. Other accounts speak of...a cavalryman with an unexplainable empathy with horses. Another of a gardener. A cook."

"Good thing we didn't end up with that one," Fatima interjected with a snort into the pause that followed as Genesis searched for how to proceed.

As before, Genesis ignored her. "His is...healing. Presumably. Though it may relate to a certain...sub-type we are not aware of yet. These things develop over time. According to the sources. Jan Komor came to the conclusion he is one from...observing that he felt similar to the smith. And learning that said...blacksmith had died the same day he was born. The smith had a different temperament, however. The...potential carries, but the personality does not.

"As is evident, it is a rare convergence to have one of these individuals also possess a tool like the staff. According to Jean-Luc d'Avignon's writing, he was...not magically inclined before coming into its possession, though that may have been a lack of training rather than a lack of potential. Afterwards, he was a...middling mage. But the staff allowed him to perform certain minor miracles. At a cost. I don't believe we can wholly trust his word, as he was an expert at...self-promotion, but I believe the majority of his accomplishments were genuine. Nevertheless, I believe that had he not been killed, continuing to use the staff would have killed him. His potential and the staff's were not...remotely equivalent. But this situation is different."

Across the room, Eva sighed. "That explains a lot. How he could heal the djinn through their collars. And what happened with Slava. We can't let Cyrus learn about this. Or Ravensdale."

"Agreed," Genesis said.

"But I think he already suspects," Eva continued. She leaned forward, across the footboard of the bed, and put a hand on Mirk's leg, meeting his eyes. Even if he hadn't been able to feel how serious she was, it would have been clear in the intense focus of her narrowed gaze. "You should leave the City."

Mirk shook his head, though he instantly regretted it. He waited to speak until the room stopped spinning. "No. I won't leave everyone. I want to help. You, the djinn, the Easterners. And there's really nothing for me back home, even if Henri's there."

"Knowing Senkov and the company he kept, you were tricked into coming here," Emir said. He wasn't looking at Mirk. He was glaring at Genesis. "That's what this was all about, wasn't it? You're just finishing what Senkov started. He'd been raving for centuries about getting rid of the nobles. Him and Jan."

Genesis didn't reply. But he slipped Jean-Luc's journal back into the pocket of his overcoat, straightening its shoulders. Preparing himself. Like a man facing the sword, or the noose.

The sight of it made something in Mirk's chest ache. And it compelled him to speak up again. "Providence doesn't make mistakes. I'm here now. And I won't leave. Methinks it wouldn't be right, no matter..."

"Enough of this," Fatima said, tapping her cane on the stone floor. "I want to know about your promise to help me," she said to Genesis. "You lot can argue over the rest of it on your own time."

"Yes, I would like to know why you're here, Fatima," Emir said.

"Simple. Converging interests. I have women who want work fighting and enchanting but your commanders won't let them. He wants information and more bodies. And has promised us a place, if he ever manages to take control of anything. The problem is that we're all getting hacked to bits and don't have any healers of our own. And you saw what happened to Alice when she tried to come here for help. So we'll have to work outside the infirmary."

Emir pressed his fingertips to his temples. "I don't have the healers."

"He says you do." Fatima shifted her annoyance back to Genesis, who was still staring off into the middle distance, shoulders squared, as if expecting something terrible to come crashing down on him any moment. "I told you, I want healers at the house from sundown to sunup at least four nights a week. You can't do it with just them, not without making it obvious they're doing healing on the side somewhere else. It'll raise even more suspicions. I'm sure that bastard from the Tenth will be seeing plots everywhere with the stunt he just pulled."

Fatima looked to Mirk with a mixture of suspicion and frustration. When he met her eyes, cringing back into the pillows at the exasperated face she made, she sighed and shook her head. "Of course, I'm grateful for your help. Alice is one of my best spies. And well on her way to becoming a decent assassin. The baby will make it harder, but she'll see it through. My point is that you didn't have to be so flashy about everything."

"I didn't know what was going to happen," Mirk said. "I just showed the staff what was wrong. And then it..."

"That's what you get for playing with divine magic. Unpredictable, unreliable, unsustainable."

Her words finally seemed to bring Genesis back to the present. "There is no proof of any...god in the staff."

Fatima waved Genesis off. "Yes, yes, I know. No gods, no lords, whatever. But I know what I saw. Anyway, you seem like a decent practical healer besides, so we can work with that," she continued, refocusing on Mirk. "So we've got you, a surgeon, the half-Death, and Yule. It's a start, but it's not going to cover everything that comes up. Or all the shifts."

"Who said we're going along with this plan of yours anyway?" Yule shot back. He'd always been a bit prickly about his position in the division, about how he had to lean hard on practice and study to do his work while the rest of them could rely on their inborn magical talents. Fatima's comment hadn't helped convince Yule to be agreeable. Mirk got the impression that she'd known full well that it wouldn't earn her any favors with him, but hadn't cared enough to choose her words more carefully.

"Fine," Fatima said with a shrug. "Let's take roll. Who's in, who's out?"

Eva was the first to reply. "In. I'm done with Cyrus."

"I'm inclined to agree," Emir said. "He wants me gone, the same as his friends among the other commanders. If helping you means he might finally leave, I'll do what I can. I want to stay alive."

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"In," Danu said, after a moment, offering no explanation.

Yule offered one for her. "I'm not surprised. Not wanting to be dead is a fine enough reason. And both of you have fallen head over heels for one of his useless Russians," he said, focusing his scrutiny on Danu and Eva. When neither of them rose to his provocation, Yule rolled his eyes and shook his hair back over his shoulders. "You want them to stay alive, Gen wants them to stay alive, it makes sense. What I'm saying is, there's nothing in it for me."

"Is that a no, then?" Fatima asked.

Yule did his best to spit out the word. But in the end, he sighed and shook his head. "I'm in. But I'd appreciate being paid for my time, at least. You all get something out of this, so I don't see why I shouldn't too. We're mercenary healers, after all."

"Healers for mercenaries," Danu corrected.

"Same difference."

"That's his problem," Fatima said, gesturing to Genesis.

Genesis frowned across the bed at Yule. Yule returned the favor. "In time...your service will be to your benefit."

"Charity doesn't pay my tab." He paused, his eyes flicking toward Mirk. "And before either of you try it, don't go shaking Mirk down for gold again. Just because he's the only one here who isn't one bad day away from the gutter doesn't mean you two have the right to rob him for your revolution."

"No one's ever asked me for money," Mirk said.

"That's because no one has to. All they have to do is tell you the saddest story they can think of and out comes the purse."

Before Mirk could reply, Emir cut in, shaking his head. "Yule does have a point about pay. I could convince more people to help if I could tell them they'd be getting paid for it. Half of our people are healing on their off-hours already to pay for things."

Fatima shot Genesis a look. Without being able to feel her emotions to help things along, Mirk wasn't quite sure what she meant by it. "Take more contracts off the assassins' boards. I'll pass them around to the girls who are ready for it. But keep to the one and two stars. Your perfect average will go away, but you'll get enough gold to pay everyone, especially if any of the marks are holding anything that we can pawn."

Genesis sighed. "If I must...then so be it."

"Nice to see you being sensible about money for once," Fatima said as she pulled herself to her feet. She leaned hard on her cane with one hand and dug in her pocket with the other, coming up with a handful of what looked like brass buttons. "It's settled then. Until we've got more people, you lot will have to do. No set shifts until then, just these. When it rattles, you've got work to do. It'll stop once someone comes, and only then."

She did a circuit of the room, handing one to each healer, pausing in front of Emir. "Not you. Your job is to bring me more healers. Someone like you showing up at the house would draw too much attention."

"Aye, Comrade Commander," Emir said, with a tired smirk at the way Fatima scowled in response to the title. "You're right. I'm being watched as it is. Cyrus will have convinced Alistair to put another three spies on me by nightfall, I'm sure."

Fatima crossed to Mirk's bedside, one last button held in her free hand. She laughed to herself as she tossed it onto Mirk's lap. "We never asked you whether you were in or out. But I'm guessing you're in."

Mirk picked up the button — it looked and felt like an ordinary overcoat button, aside from the faint trace of magic he could feel in it, along with the ticking of some kind of clockwork mechanism. "If people are getting hurt, methinks it wouldn't be right for me not to help."

Flashing another pointed look at Genesis on the way, Fatima headed for the door. "You better have trained him well. A man who'd say something like that is as good as dead if he crosses the wrong person. God-magic or no god-magic."

"He is...capable of defending himself," Genesis replied, without looking after her. He was staring into the middle-distance again, with the same troubling, blank expression.

"It's our funeral if he's not."

- - -

"I'm sorry, messire."

Though he'd been apprehensive about it, Emir had agreed to let Mirk go back to the quarters he shared with Genesis rather than stay up on the long-term ward for monitoring. He hadn't been able to pick up much from the head of the Twentieth's emotions — his angelic lineage was evident there, he'd mastered the same empathic restraint that all angelic children were taught, though Emir didn't often feel the need to make use of it — but what Mirk was able to feel bothered him. Emir wasn’t concerned by the thought of not being able to keep an eye on him at the infirmary. He was hesitant to let him leave with Genesis.

It wasn't that Emir didn't trust Genesis, not exactly, if what Mirk could feel was true. It was that he thought Genesis was taking advantage of him in some way. Danu had similar reservations, but not as strong. Yule had his own ideas about what was going on. Ideas that were more in line with what was actually happening, though Yule had the situation reversed. Genesis wasn't harboring unspoken feelings for him, feelings that wouldn't allow him to exploit Mirk's position unduly. He was the one with the feelings. And all the troubles that went along with them.

Genesis didn't respond to his apology right away. He'd magicked them both back to the dormitory and had helped Mirk back to bed, allowing him to hang off his arm for support as he'd shuffled from the common room to the bedroom. At present, the commander was helping him pile on his collection of quilts, the magicked warming quilt that he'd made for Genesis included. Even though the weather wasn't horribly cold, Mirk felt just as chilled as he had last night from having his magic drained away. Only once the last quilt was folded around Mirk to Genesis's satisfaction did he choose to reply, looking off over his head rather than meeting his eyes.

"There is no reason for you to...apologize to me."

"I shouldn't have done it. Asking the staff..."

"You have no control over what it does. In particular."

"That's exactly why I shouldn't have depended on it to fix things," Mirk said, sighing as he settled back into his pile of pillows. Genesis hadn't protested his claiming all of them. A sure sign that he had no intentions of coming to bed any time soon, even if it was only early afternoon at present. Mirk smoothed his numb fingertips over the stitching on the self-warming blanket, wishing that more of its heat would sink into them. The price he paid for playing God with the staff, he supposed.

The question had been nagging him ever since Genesis had finally cracked and explained everything to them. Mirk still wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. It would make things difficult between them, more difficult than they already were. But he had to know. Like all painful things, it'd be best to get it done and over with, Mirk supposed. Not knowing wouldn't change anything. "How long did you know, Genesis? That Father Jean wasn't...Father Jean."

Genesis took a step back from the bed, making a frustrated noise somewhere between a hiss and a sigh as he folded his arms. "I was not...advised about any of this. Senkov only told us that there was a good contract in France. A favor for what he called...an old friend. I did not know that friend was Jan Komor. In truth...it took me several weeks to recognize him. Disguises and...related trickery was one of his interests. And I had only met him once before. Once I understood who he was, things had...advanced too far."

"Who was Senkov? Everyone here seems to know him..."

"A man who had...similar ideas to myself. But who did not hesitate to manipulate the truth to serve our cause. That is not c'ayet," Genesis said, hitting the word in his native language hard, making it snap and hiss. "But he did not follow it. As none are forced to. There is always a choice. But yours was...taken from you. For that, I am in your debt."

"What do you mean?"

For minutes, Genesis wrestled with how to explain himself. Mirk waited, mindful to not look at him, knowing it'd only make things worse. He could feel the shadows stirring beneath the bed, making it feel as if he was resting more on static than batting and boards. "Senkov died before he could...explain himself. Jan did not. He was...very adamant that you must not be allowed to remain with the nobles in your country. He insisted that you must be brought to the City. And join us. At all costs. As he had been...planning this outcome for some time. Not what happened to your...relations. And you. That was a...turn of events he had not anticipated. But he thought your...magic, and the staff's...was too powerful to remain in the hands of the noble mages."

Mirk stared up at the ceiling, searching his memory for signs. Father Jean had never struck him as dishonest. He spoke his mind to the Abbess, to his father and his angelic tutors, to bishops and dukes, all without exception. Even when it meant putting his position at risk. And Mirk had never felt any malice from him, not directed at him.

Father Jean had been transparent. He'd only learned how to shield his mind as a way to comfort him, when his empathy had first begun to manifest and even the most gentle emotions had weighed on him like so many stones grinding him down into earth, which was suddenly alive and loud and restless in a way he didn't understand. Or so Father Jean had said. If it had all been a facade, it was the best Mirk had ever seen. Through a throat that had gone bone dry, Mirk made himself ask the next question. "When did he tell..."

"The night that...everything occurred."

"Oh..."

"Afterwards...I was determined to take you to the guild healers. K'aekniv and Mordecai protested. They convinced me that...your condition...could only be handled by a healer with the skills possessed by Emir, who has...experience with these things. In those with angelic blood. And that leaving you with the nobles would...jeopardize your safety. Provided one is not targeted by a K'maneda, the City is...safe from external interference."

That knowledge stung as much as the news of Father Jean did. But for an entirely different reason. Mirk didn't try to hide the wince. He didn't have the strength. And he didn't think Genesis would understand why he did it.

But, for once, he seemed to. The commander let out a long sigh, unfolding his arms and letting them hang at his sides as he squared his shoulders. The same way he had back in the infirmary, when he'd first tried to explain. As if he was expecting some kind of punishment. "It was...not a matter of...dislike. You were lied to. You had no...choice. They had been taking it from you since you were a child. This I only learned recently. Upon...finding a fraction of Senkov’s papers."

"What do you mean?"

Genesis struggled even longer that time to find the proper words. "I came to the City when I was...eleven years, ten months. Senkov replaced my...nis'yk. Guide. Mentor. I did not question why he made me do...the assignments he did. This is how things are. A syk'ca...student...will come to understand the purpose through doing. And if the purpose is objectionable, the syk'ca can refuse. There is...always a choice."

He paused for a time, thinking. Though Mirk did his best not to look at him, knowing full well it'd only make it harder for Genesis to continue, he couldn't help but notice that, despite his best efforts, Genesis could no longer keep the shadows from coming to him. They curled out from under the bed, spreading across the wall behind him in deepening spirals. The fact that Genesis hadn't let them do as they wanted right from the start, Mirk thought, spoke to how hard Genesis had been fighting to contain any sign of his emotions.

"After....everything, I...recalled an assignment Senkov gave me soon after I came. A...riddle. It was his usual method. He was aware of my...interest in binding magic. My...understanding of the assignment was that he wished to know how much I had learned through my own efforts. He asked me how I would make a spell to bind a piece of the earth away from itself without removing it. A...useful exercise, he said at the conclusion...because my own bindings...are a way of binding part of me...from myself...without removal. And negotiating them would be...key to my development.

"With the...new information from Jan...I was suspicious. But I had no way to...confirm. Until I took back some of Senkov's papers from the mage in the...Third who stole them after his...execution. This spell was not an...exercise. He...modified it...with information from Jan...to conceal your magic. I don't understand the full purpose of this. But I....do understand the implications. I am responsible, in some part, for this...deception. The removal of your choice. And for that...I am in your debt."

The laugh escaped Mirk before he could catch it. Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk saw the shadows tense along the wall behind Genesis. Not to rush outward, but to collapse inward, on Genesis himself. But before they could, Mirk managed to say something more sensible, something Genesis could understand. At least a little. "Oh, pas du tout. Then I'm in your debt, messire."

"...explain."

"The years before I had my magic were happy. They stopped trying to teach me anything very soon, you know. I just...well. I spent time with my mother. And the servants. Of course, being sent to the abbey was awful at first, but it's what's done. All children have to be sent away for a while to learn how to act without their parents guiding them. My sister was sent to the Empire to learn with the other half-angel girls from a few ladies from the Citadel. And I was sent to the abbey. That was a different kind of happy than when I was with my family, but it was...sais pas. It was nice. Just...serving."

Mirk tried to never let himself think about his time at the abbey too hard, just like he tried not to think of the Lis de la Rivière in flames. But not because his time with the sisters and brothers was a black pit he felt he'd fall into and never escape if he dwelled on it. The years he had spent there — tending the garden and humming to Vespers and stirring stew in the kitchen and even staring at the wall of his cell, propped up against Tournesol's side — were the last time he'd felt at peace. He had thought that was what life would be like forever, even if his family called on him to serve the Church in a higher position. A life of quiet routine, and thoughtfulness, and small wonders. His magic's appearance and the death of his uncle Marc had put an end to it. Knowing that it was Genesis who had made that peace possible, even if it hadn't been intentional, didn't ruin it at all. In a way, it only made everything make more sense.

The only times he'd felt glimmers of that same peace since he'd come to the City had been when he'd been wrapped inside the safety of Genesis's magic.

"But it was...a deception," Genesis said, interrupting Mirk's thoughts.

"That's true. But methinks Father Jean must have meant well, in his own way," Mirk said. He couldn't bring himself to call Father Jean by the name the others used, the one that sounded like that of a stranger. "I...I don't think he could have lied about caring for me. I would have felt it. And in the end..."

And in the end, when he could have run, when he should have run, Father Jean had taken him into his arms, shoved him out into the foyer and away from the fire in the ballroom, the roar of the flames echoed by the hysterical gasping of Serge Montigny's laughter. Then Father Jean had picked him up and carried him to the front doors, hurling them open and dropping him on the front steps. He had told him to run, to run without stopping, without looking back. Father Jean had told him that God would guide and protect him. And then he'd turned back around to face the towering pillar of darkness, solid and creeping and reeking of mingled camphor and rose, that had stalked out into the foyer after him, casting the rings he always wore on each of his fingers to the floor in preparation.

Mirk thought of those rings often. If he should have stopped before running away to pick up the one that'd gone rolling out the open front doors and bouncing off down the steps. As if somehow having one of them to hold onto might have given him the presence of mind to fight as well.

He cleared the thought away fast, pressing his hands down hard on the blanket, trying to focus on the distant feel of its warmth. "...anyway, it's...it's over now. It doesn't matter how I came here. I'm here for a reason. And even if I might have chosen different before, now I'm choosing to stay. So you don't owe me anything, Gen. Though I wish you'd have told me about Father Jean sooner instead of trying to understand how everything fit together first."

"I...see."

He snuck a glance at Genesis's face. He was as confused as Mirk had ever seen him, judging by the defensive baring of his teeth behind his lips and how high his eyebrows were arched. It made Mirk laugh again, as he pulled the blankets up to his chin. Genesis had tucked him in the way that he himself preferred to sleep instead of thinking strictly of warmth and comfort: blanket at mid-chest, arms exposed. Ready to fight. A similar miscalculation was behind the confusion, Mirk thought. A man like Genesis, with his single-minded devotion to resistance and freedom, couldn't ever fathom yielding to providence without protest. "But if you insist on doing me a favor, I'd be glad if you stayed. I know you must be busy, but I don't have any shields. And I always feel a little better with your magic between me and everything else."

Genesis deliberated for a moment. Then, with a wave of his hand, his sullen armchair appeared, the space between the bedside and the wall just wide enough for it to fit. He didn't say anything more to Mirk, instead summoning another of his endless, thick black grimoires and settling in to read. Mirk didn't mind. The fact that Genesis listened, that he stayed, was good enough. When Mirk closed his eyes, exhaustion overwhelmed him fast, and sleep was quick on its heels.

His last thought as he drifted off, was that even if Genesis was taking advantage of him in some way he wasn't clever enough to see, it didn't matter. It kept them both in the City, in those quarters. And as long as he was there, Mirk could entertain his own delusions. And keep his own secret. In light of that, if Genesis was keeping any of his own, it was only fair.

No one was completely innocent. It was just a matter of knowing where to look for their sins.