The first thing Graves asks for is water. Papa happily gives him a glass, and he takes a sip only to promptly cough most of it up. The next sip goes down a little smoother and so does the third. When he finishes, he collapses on the bed, pale and trembling from the exertion.

"Welcome back to the living." Papa smiles at Graves as he checks his eyes, and his pulse, and listens to his chest. If he finds Papa's methods or his instruments strange - which, Cressida thinks, he must, for surely wizard kind has a better way of doing things - he gives no sign. "Do you know what year it is?"

"Nineteen Twenty Six." Graves voice is rough and crackling from disuse.

He coughs again, and Cressida quickly offers him the potion Mama had brewed. "Here."

He gives her a curious look when the strong taste of the liquid touches his tongue. She cannot tell if he recognizes it's magical origins or if he just finds it repulsive - his brown eyes are glassy from the laudanum and, even though she isn't touching him, she can feel the exhaustion dancing at the edge of his mind. He sets the mug down on the bedside table, his hand trembling and then falling limply back on the blankets.

"Do you know what day it is?" Papa asks.

"I know it is December. The eight? Tenth?" It's a guess, and it's easy to see that Graves doesn't like it. He's one who is used to being control and who needs to know what is going on. Not knowing eats at him, but he's still so weak that he can't do much except close his eyes.

"The Twelfth." Papa corrects him. "And who is the president?"

"Coolidge."

"What's your name, son?"

"Peredur." He says after a moment. He coughs again, and Cressida can hear his breath rattling in his chest from where she is standing at the foot of the bed. "Peredur Staid." She's silently impressed that he's with it enough to remember the current president and give a fake name. Given the state he's in, she was worried that he might slip up. But then, he is the Director of Magical Defense. He probably had some sort of training for situations like this.

Papa glances at her. "Looks like you weren't too far off the mark there."

Graves eyes snap back open at that, and she flushes under his cool gaze. She takes a slow deep breath and lowers her eyes. There is still a way for her to save this, she tells herself. Wizards aren't the only ones who know the benefits of certain plants, so she can pass the potion off as tea if he asks. Nor are witches the only ones who know how to read the future - the various forms of divination have been around for centuries. She builds a wall around her thoughts though, just in case he is as skilled at legilimency as he is with occlumency.

"Got any family looking for you? I'm sure your people must be worried."

Graves shakes his head. "I don't know." His eyelids are drifting close again, but he fights to keep them open. "If you are done, I have some questions of my own."

Papa nods. "Of course."

"Where... where am I?"

"You're currently with the Morris Brother's Circus in upstate New York. I'm Eric Polari, this is my eldest daughter, Cressida."

"How did I get here?"

"I should be asking you that. Do you remember what happened to you? How you got these injuries?"

"No."

"Mmm." Papa hums. He glances at Cressida and she gives him a little shrug. Their guest is lying, but to try to read his memories would give them away. He looks back at Graves. "You stumbled across my daughter last night. Gave her quite a fright."

He holds up his arm. "Is that how this happened?"

Cressida snorts as she pours Graves some more water. "One of the lions was a bit hungry. Apparently she thought you'd make a good midnight snack. I convinced her that you were too bony for her tastes."

His lips twitch at that, but another cough wracks his body before he can respond.

"Cressida, why don't you go get some more of that..." Papa gestures at the mug. "From your Mama, and we can let Mr. Staid get some rest?"

"Yes, Papa."


Graves sleeps for the rest of that day and most of the following one and the next. There are moments when he wakes briefly to eat broth from Cookie, or drink more water, or swallow Mama's 'tea', or lean on Papa to visit the necessary. His breathing continues to be far more labored than Papa cares for, and Cressida notices during those brief moments that she's able to visit the tent that his skin is growing warm again - though nothing like the fever he had when she first found him.

"An infection?" She asks when she stops by to grab more clothing for Pandora, Vesta and herself from their trunks.

"Possibly." Papa sighs. "But his arm is clear. Could you...?" He trails off, but then glances meaningfully at where Graves lays in bed.

"Mama will be upset."

"I'm sure Mama would rather he not die on our watch. We haven't the money for a funeral. Nor do any of us want the local sheriff coming around and asking questions. Especially your Tinker

"He's not my anything." Cressida says as she takes Papa's place by the bedside. She takes Graves's hand again, touches his forehead, and slips beneath the surface of his thoughts. The wall is still there, stronger and taller than before, the cracks slowly repairing themselves. Less and less is slipping out as a result. But she's not here to find out who he is or what he's doing here, she's here to see what else might be ailing his poor body.

The infection in his arm that she had noticed earlier has faded, beaten back by Papa's frequent cleaning of the wound and liberal doses of alcohol. She senses the liquid that has settled in his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. There's an underlying exhaustion complicating the situation as a whole, from months upon months of what she assumes is abuse, but it's hard to clearly see. As soon as she draws close to the source, it's snapped away behind the damn wall of his. It leaves a faint taint of something wicked behind, something wrong, and she can taste bile on her tongue as a result.

Is there such a thing as dark magic? Spells that no one is supposed to know?

Cressida isn't naive. She knows that there are dark witches and wizards out there - like that Grindelwald in Mama's papers - who have horrible things, but she just always assumed that they used the same spells that everyone else did. Sort of how a knife in the right hands could be used to either create a beautiful work of art carved out of wood, but if it was given to someone with the wrong intentions, it could be used to maim or even kill.

Not for the first time she finds herself railing against her circumstances. If only things were different, she could have gotten a proper education instead of the little bits and pieces that Mama chooses to pass on. She would be able to use a wand. She could protect herself. But no, thanks to MACUSA's silly laws, all she can do is run if she comes face to face with a monster like Grindelwald - and what use is running against someone like him? Heck, she wouldn't even stand a chance against the auror currently laying in her bed.

The hand she holds firmly in her own, squeezes her fingers together tightly, nearly crushing them. She yelps and looks down to find that Graves is glaring at her, his dark eyebrows nearly knitted together in his fury. She doesn't blame him at all. She'd be peeved too if someone was trying to read her thoughts without her permission. She tries to drop his hand like it's a hot plate, but he refuses to let go. He growls, "What are you doing?"

"N-n-nothing." Cressida stammers. "Just checking your temperature. And your pulse." Belatedly she remembers to erect her own wall again and prays that he didn't pick up on anything while she was under.

"There was more to it than that."

"I think you're imagining things, Mister." She lifts her chin up and stares down at him, silently daring him to try to claim otherwise. Thankfully another coughing hits him, interrupting the moment, and he relinquishes her hand so he can sit himself up.

She takes advantage of the moment to escape. As her heart pounds in her ears she runs outside the tent, stopping only to take a couple of ragged breaths once she's sure she's safe.