So, I wanted to publish this on the 21st to make it exactly one month, but this week was utter chaos at work and I have a headache right now too. I think my head actually waited until I relaxed a smidge to express its resentment. So mean. On that note, I hope you're all doing well, and if not, that you get there soon.

Chapter Eighteen

the same old someone that I knew

Nathaniel

In one swift motion, there was a circle on the paper. A dozen smaller ones appeared next, all done with precise strokes, a flick of the wrist. Lastly, a medium inner circle materialised, touching the lines of all the smaller circles. Then came a thicker pencil, correcting the rough lines and flattening the sides of the smaller circles to make them oval-shaped.

By the time he was done, the image looked like a strange, primitive pentacle.

Nathaniel considered it, erasing and correcting the smallest details as he went. In drawing the symbol from the pebble, he had hoped to bring some clarity to his mind, to activate a different part of his brain, maybe trigger a memory.

So far, the only conclusion he'd come to was that this could indeed be a pentacle—if one considered the circles to be runes. But he'd never heard of a pentacle on a Seal or a Shield before. As far as he could see with his lenses on, Seals and Shields were both energy barriers and nothing else. And since not one of his spirits had recognised the symbol—Shubit had kindly polled everyone—this theory that the symbol was a pentacle had reached a dead end.

On the other hand, Nathaniel hadn't found a single coat of arms identical to the strange symbol from reading Mr Button's book that morning. There were plenty of shields in coats of arms, but the pebble's symbol looked too rough to be a proper coat of arms. However, it was possible that the pebble had only returned with some of the lines and therefore deprived them of important details.

Nathaniel didn't want to try to get rid of the barrier with the Amulet either—it would keep them from discovering the meaning behind the symbol, and who knew what would happen to the bridge? Besides, he didn't want to return to the bridge so soon in general, not after trying to get everyone to help with finishing the pentacle for the hybrids. He shouldn't even be thinking about the godforsaken pebble in the first place, but he and Shubit had hit a wall in their research, and Adamastor had fled as soon as Kitty was out of the room.

Sighing, Nathaniel dropped the notebook on the desk and winced as he repositioned himself on the chair.

Even though they'd stayed on the roof until late, Bartimaeus had showed him no mercy that morning during self-defence training, demanding that Nathaniel block move after crazy move and coordinate his own better. And God forbid the thought of complaining even crossed Nathaniel's mind. It was like Bartimaeus could tell and wanted to break the record of how many times Nathaniel could end up on his back in one single session.

The irony of it all was that Nathaniel had slept well, if not much. After Bartimaeus had brought him back to his room and Nathaniel had showered off the remnants of sweat, the nightmares had called a truce. Nathaniel had squeezed in sweet, uninterrupted sleep from three until seven-thirty, when Bartimaeus had come to drag a protesting Nathaniel out of bed. According to Bartimaeus, sleeping in would throw off their routine. Nathaniel was sure Bartimaeus simply enjoyed the excuse of making a fool out of him.

It was hard to be resentful after everything that had happened the day before, however. Nathaniel covered his lips as the image of Bartimaeus's indignant face at Nathaniel's 'drawing' resurfaced in his mind. One would think Bartimaeus had swallowed the sourest milk in the world. Nathaniel stifled a laugh, not wanting to call attention to himself. He should be working on the pentacle, as Shubit was. And yet…

And yet, his mind was all too happy to replay the events on the roof. Bold and heady—those were the words that came to mind to summarise Bartimaeus the night before. With his angel wing around Nathaniel not letting in the cold and a sea of stars sprawled out before them, he had settled into another dimension entirely. Maybe that was why taking Bartimaeus's hand had felt right and easy. Nathaniel certainly couldn't label it as a necessity, not like at Hyde Park.

It was all very confusing, a little maddening. Bartimaeus hadn't reacted like he'd expected at all. He hadn't acted like himself either. Not that he trusted his instincts very much these days. He couldn't get through one day without jumping at the most innocent sound. If Bartimaeus hadn't been there at Hyde Park, what would have happened? Would he have gathered himself eventually? Screamed at a tree? Been found by a real hybrid and killed?

Nathaniel pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as new waves of gloominess and dread crashed against him. He had to snap out of it. He'd been through life-or-death situations before. He was fine. He was lucky.

Recognising this particular pattern of his thoughts, Nathaniel looked down at his notebook again. Drawing helped. Creating something helped.

Focusing on the sensation of the pages against his fingers, Nathaniel flipped them until he landed on the page where he'd started an outline of Bartimaeus crouched down in gargoyle form atop a Victorian roof, looking sullen about being the resting spot for many a pigeon. He'd seen this particular memory during their time sharing a mind, because Bartimaeus lacked focus in a way that was utterly astonishing to Nathaniel, pulling from various memories at the simplest mention of an element that might not even have any feasible connection to the memory.

Knowing he should focus on literally anything else but still unable to resist, Nathaniel got a 2B pencil from the case and began drawing over the preliminary lines. He could simply chalk this up to his exhaustion. Or so he told himself as he took great care to slump down the gargoyle's head into the neck in sheer exasperation, turn down the corners of the mouth just right, and adjust the eyes up and to the right—the direction Bartimaeus inevitably always took for his many eye rolls. Sure, Bartimaeus couldn't see himself, but the feeling of exasperation from that memory was enough for Nathaniel to know what he'd been doing.

There was a pigeon right on Bartimaeus's horn, pecking at it in search of food, another on his shoulder, and yet another nestled between a foot and the knee right above it. Nathaniel smiled as he tweaked with the angles of every pair of wings.

Hands were always tricky business, even after years of practice. There were so many articulations, so many possibilities for what each finger could do. To make matters harder, Bartimaeus's hands were always moving and always expressive, even when they weren't producing rude gestures. This time, Bartimaeus was resting his chin in one hand while he shooed a fourth pigeon with another. Nathaniel looked at his own hands—pale, long fingers greeting him back—and tried extending one just like Bartimaeus was doing to get a better reference.

As he did, he remembered the feel of Bartimaeus's hand on his on the day before, cold and dry, but much more alive than he'd expected.

Chastising himself for his foolishness, Nathaniel steered his thoughts away from such dangerous territory and focused back on the drawing, this time on the background. Tiles would distract him, he was sure. They required precision and concentration, but they were ultimately a repetition. Still, if Ms Lutyens could see him now, drawing such precise lines without complaint, she would be proud.

The tiles were what betrayed him in the end. Lulled by the monotonous exercise, Nathaniel's eyes fluttered closed for the umpteenth time and his body slumped further forward.

He was asleep in seconds.

Piper

By Monday morning, Piper had a plan. She was going to meet with President Williams, discuss any additional business not covered by the peace treaty, sign the damned thing, stay long enough for the press to be satisfied, and then get back home.

Piper was still shaken from the hospital, and the conversation with Nathaniel, Kitty and Bartimaeus the day before hadn't helped put her at ease. She'd arranged to leave for the weekend in order to return to London by Tuesday and only miss one day of work. True, the Council didn't have anything scheduled for today as per her request, but England was unstable, and the Czech Republic, Italy and France were still too quiet for her liking. Every meeting she had with the country leaders or representatives left her with a sense of impending doom. Signing this peace treaty with North America would no doubt create certain expectations.

Then there was the hybrid situation. She still couldn't believe Nathaniel was coming up with a whole new pentacle all by himself. Piper had always seen him for the precocious magician that he was, but after spending so long caring for him she had forgot. She had forgot for just the right amount of time for this feat to leave her beyond impressed. It was a relief to have Nathaniel take a lead on this, although it made her feel foolish for not thinking of it sooner.

At least the residual magic at the bridge hadn't given them trouble yet, even if it was intriguing. Still, Piper didn't want to have to add to her pile, so she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. As things were, it wasn't a priority, and she was glad that Kitty and Nathaniel weren't treating it as such. And gladder that she hadn't sent both of them to their demise.

Lastly, there was the issue of the Commoners' Alliance. She had to assume that the event Bartimaeus had heard about was the winter soirée, which immediately put her on high alert. This event would host the most powerful people in London, maybe even the world. The Council was counting on it for donations to keep the rebuilding and rehousing afloat. She had already begun studying ways of schmoozing specific businesspeople to open their wallets. The knowledge that Nathaniel and Kitty were looking into it did nothing to assuage her nerves. These days, Piper was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which was why it shouldn't have surprised her to find Malia sitting down outside the tent cleared for the meeting with President Williams fifteen minutes before said meeting was set to begin. Piper bristled and stopped right in front of Malia, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

"Madam Prime Minister," greeted Malia from the floor, tilting her head and squinting up at Piper. Even though it was freezing outside, the sunshine was piercing through the clouds in defiance, making Piper wish she'd brought her sunglasses. Malia must have been thinking something along those lines.

Regardless, Piper wasn't fooled by the casual tone. "Don't tell me you're here to subtly ensure this peace treaty isn't signed."

Malia winced. "I suppose I deserved that. Look—" Malia raised her hands placatingly— "I'm here to apologise, alright? I crossed a line."

Piper bore the full force of her suspicious glare into Malia for a few seconds. To her credit, Malia didn't look away or so much as flinch. Piper's team shifted behind her. Perched atop her shoulder in the shape of a grey and blue hummingbird, Ezekiel buzzed with unspent energy.

After a few moments had passed and neither had budged, Marcus cleared his throat. Piper snapped out of it and signalled for her team to go in ahead of her. Turning to Malia, she said, "Very well. Speak."

Malia nodded gratefully, fiddling with the same bracelet she'd worn the day before. "Alex and I had a long talk yesterday. He wasn't happy with me—with the way I'd treated you and the patients. He made me see that I was blinded by hate and anger and potentially creating an even worse situation for all of us. So I hope that what I did doesn't affect the decisions made today. He is a good and just leader, and he had nothing to do with my actions."

Indignation flared within Piper. So this was what she'd wanted to accomplish all along. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm so petty I'll let your behaviour cloud my judgement?"

"No," Malia said evenly, shooting her a pleading look. "I think that you're used to fighting to get what you want and being underestimated. I can relate."

Piper quirked her eyebrow but said nothing. Malia threw her eyes to the skies above, shuffling her feet a little as if she were bracing herself.

"You took the reins in an incredibly chaotic situation without thinking twice about the consequences. When your country needed a leader, you stepped up. Just like my fiancé. You may not have been chosen by your people like he was, but you certainly weren't handed anything. From what I've learned by watching Britain over the years, I don't know that it needs a leader who can charm everyone's pants off right now. What it needs is someone brave and willing to protect its people. And that's you, Rebecca."

Piper opened and closed her mouth a few times. This was the same person who'd schemed to psych her out the day before? "I—thank you?"

Malia sighed, brow creased in frustration. "Look, Rebecca, all I want is to make amends. For my people, but also for you. You didn't deserve that. It's not one person's fault that everything's so messed up. I'm not saying that I'm ready to put everything to rest—there's a lot of hurt and resentment built over the decades that I can't just ignore. But I'm not going to put blame on one person. And to prove that I'm serious about this, I'd like to formally invite you to our wedding."

If she'd been confused before, Piper was now gobsmacked. "You want me at your wedding?"

"That is what I said."

"I'm sorry, I'm just confused. Don't you hate me?"

Malia smiled like the thought amused her. "Hate you? Of course not. I thought we'd established that I was projecting. I find you pretty badass now that I've properly met you. You really gave it to me straight yesterday, and while crying like a baby no less. I know better than to underestimate you now."

"You find—what?" Was it possible to get mental whiplash? Piper would vouch that yes, it very much was.

Malia seemed to be enjoying her reactions immensely. Her grin didn't let up for a second as she searched her jacket's inner pocket for a light green envelope. Piper accepted the envelope without saying a word, finding her full name written in cursive, gilded letters in the corner.

"I know you planned on leaving today if everything got settled during the meeting, but this would really show the world that peace between our nations is possible and here to stay."

Piper nodded dumbly. In a faraway corner of her brain, she understood what Malia was saying. This was about more than signing a peace treaty. If she attended Malia and Alexander's wedding as a personal guest, they'd be sending quite the powerful message. On the other hand, that meant leaving London unattended for the rest of the week.

"Think about it, okay? We'd love to see you there," Malia urged her softly, reaching out to squeeze Piper's unoccupied shoulder. Ezekiel bristled at the intrusion, but Malia remained unaffected.

"I will. Thank you," Piper said. She might be dazed, but her manners had been drilled into her from a very young age.

"Good." And with a smile and a wink, Malia was gone.

And all Piper could think was a very vehement What the fuck?

Those thoughts didn't follow her into the tent. Those thoughts weren't allowed to permeate the meeting. Those thoughts were kept shut in the back of her head, where they belonged.

The meeting went on for hours. They didn't take breaks, not even when food and drinks were carried in by discreet servants, closely watched by Ezekiel, Amare, Marcus, and Carl. The regard for her own safety was at the bottom of her priorities list at the moment, however. It helped feeling that she was in capable hands, but this wasn't about her. After having witnessed so much destruction and misery in the past few months, and to have recently faced the consequences of her complacency during the previous government, Piper just wanted to secure the future of her people.

So she listened, and she took notes, and she argued her points. Her chosen diplomat, Grace, did much the same thing, sliding Piper notes throughout the meeting with advice to pursue a point further or to take a step back. On the other end of the table, Alexander Williams did the same with his advisors. A cloaked man who Piper assumed to be the so-called 'High Magician' stood motionless behind the President for the entirety of the meeting, unmoving and mute.

No one raised their voice. There weren't thinly veiled insults. But there was a lot of disagreeing, a lot of compromising, and a lot of intervention from Grace and Williams's own diplomat. Trade was an especially sore spot, but Piper was glad to notice that negotiating the prisoners' conditions wasn't. All in all, Piper knew that the compromises were worth it. England couldn't handle more pressure from North America while also having to deal with the odd climate in Europe.

After what felt like an eternity, she and Williams got up to sign while a photographer was invited in to capture the moment. The whole affair was a lot more anticlimactic than she'd expected. Piper initialised every page of her copy, skimming through the contents one last time, and signed the last page. Then she slid her copy to Williams, received his, and repeated the process. Just like she'd done countless times before.

Piper took a moment to look at her and Williams's signatures on the last page before allowing the other parties to sign. Williams extended a hand, which she shook warmly, giving him what she hoped was a polite and professional smile.

"Mister President."

Williams positively beamed at her, pretence be damned, and let out a relieved chuckle. "Madam Prime Minister."

From their previous encounters, she'd decided that Williams was stoic, charismatic, and always in control. To see him smile in such an unguarded way forced her once again to think of him as a person. Piper ought to have known better as a world leader herself. But now that didn't matter. Now she was beaming right back at him. She couldn't help it. It was contagious, and the relief washing over her needed to come out.

The camera flashed half a dozen times, and Piper should have been concerned about her picture being taken, but in that moment they could plaster it everywhere for all she cared.

It was done. She'd done it. She could bring her people home.

Well, those who wanted to come, anyway.

It was only then that Malia's odd invitation resurfaced in her mind. It was a gentle prod, and with it came the thought that staying would not only give her the opportunity to further her diplomatic agenda but also to try and make amends. Who knew? Maybe the second time was the charm.

She was about to ask Marcus to gather the team so she could discuss the idea with everyone when Malia barged into the tent carrying a bottle of champagne. Her smile was so wide it nearly split her face in two, and when her eyes locked with Williams's, she took off running. Williams caught her in the air and the two hugged fiercely for a moment while the everyone else exchanged uncomfortable glances.

Then, while still in her fiancé's embrace, Malia popped open the bottle of champagne, swung her arm as if celebrating present company and whooped. The tension in the room melted instantly. Marcus and Carl were trying and failing not to smile, Grace was a little teary and kept fanning her face, and even her djinn seemed amused. Unsure what was the proper procedure for these situations, Piper whooped as well, earning a tip of the bottle from Malia.

There would be time for ceremony later, for propriety and stoicism, for a number of press events too. Later, they'd see a ship leave London and another leave North America, bringing former war prisoners home as a gesture of good faith. Piper would be calm and collected then. She would smile serenely and answer a number of ridiculous questions.

But now, in the privacy of this tent, she would drink a glass of champagne and celebrate this victory.

Kitty

Thousands of kilometres away, Kitty was having very different thoughts as she frowned at a pan with a persistent black bottom. She'd tried everything short of throwing it out the door. To her credit, no one had said anything about proper stain-removal procedures. So long as they worked and no customers were harmed in the process, everything was fair game. But that didn't extend to the staff, so when she found out who'd left the caramel to burn…

To be fair, she was only half paying attention to the pan. Keeping one eye on the door to the bakery and another on the sink was proving fruitless. By now she should've developed a rhythm and not had to think about what her hands were doing, but the stupid pan had to ruin everything.

It was just as well. She needed to work out her frustrations.

When she'd come in that morning, the Norwood gang had showered her with questions about her well-being and safety, along with condolences for her loss. Kitty had kept a neutral expression through all of it, thanking them for their words, but always keeping an eye on Edward Norwood. In turn, she was pretty sure he was keeping an eye on her as well. That was fine. She had been prepared for this.

Kitty blew a tuft of hair off her face, squirting a healthy dose of detergent on the pan and filling it up with hot water. Maybe a third soak would do the trick.

"Still going at it?" Melanie asked from the oven, voice reverberating a little. Her entire arm had been swallowed by one of the massive ovens, along with part of her face.

Kitty hummed and turned back to the sink. "Could ask you the same. Do you want me to give you a leg up? Maybe that way you could reach the back."

A filthy cloth hit Kitty directly in the back of the head. She gasped, shoulders tensing up to her ears, and slowly turned around. Melanie was covering her mouth, trying not to burst out laughing.

Kitty plucked the cloth off the floor before narrowing her eyes at Melanie. "You are so dead."

Kitty lunged at her, but Melanie dodged with the ease and speed of someone used to running from two older brothers. In spite of her prematurely aged body, Kitty gave chase, dashing around the island, shifting directions as unpredictably as possible. Melanie stopped when she did, slapping her palms on the countertop and taunting her before fleeing again.

"Please! Mercy!" Melanie cried before she dissolved into breathless giggles. She didn't slow down for a millisecond, however.

"Lies!" Kitty cried back. She stopped abruptly, aimed, and threw the cloth. It missed Melanie by a hair's breadth.

Kitty groaned. Melanie cheered.

"What the hell are you two lunatics doing? Rush's about to start."

Kitty jumped around to find her boss staring at the two of them. Norwood was slim and tall and he tended to walk with his head sticking out a little, a by-product of working hunched over his creations for decades. Like his daughter, Norwood had a head full of hair so blonde it bordered on white, and eyes like liquid steel. Currently they were pinning Kitty down with a bemused expression.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Sorry, dad. I started it."

Norwood hummed, eyes falling to the cloth on the floor. He raised his eyebrows at them and bent down to pick it, wincing a little at the effort. Kitty could sympathise—it had been a long day. She'd taken the day shift, so it was almost time for her to leave, but Norwood still had many hours to go, even after the bakery closed.

"So," he drawled, examining the cloth, "who's winning?"

Melanie beamed. "Me, naturally. All that practice with Leo and Dave has certainly paid off."

Kitty contained her eye roll with great difficulty.

Norwood nodded along. "You three have always been busybodies. You get it from me. Drove your mum crazy."

And then he nonchalantly threw the cloth, hitting Melanie's face with a satisfying smack.

The cloth held on for a second before sliding off her face. Melanie let out a burst of a chuckle before taking a deep breath and rearranging her features to pure outrage. "You. Traitor!"

Chaos ensued. It got so loud that Leo and Dave came to check on them. Naturally, they joined in, all three siblings ganging up on Norwood. Kitty, used to being in the middle, was no one's ally and she took great satisfaction in hitting all four of them whenever she could. There were many more cries of "Traitor!" and "Treason!" and "Someone doesn't value her job!"

Halfway through the battle, someone got their hands into the flour bags, making it snow in the kitchen. Kitty and Norwood senior ceased to be the only grey-haired people in the room. Kitty retaliated with water. Leon and Dave found more cloths.

They only got a few more turns throwing the cloths around until Hannah Norwood left the bakery long enough to come in and tell everyone to stop lazing around, smacking Leo and David upside the head and dragging them into the bathroom by their ears to try and salvage their appearance. There were vehement protests from both brothers, who swore revenge would be served later that night.

Kitty almost wished she would be there to witness it.

"I better make sure mum doesn't actually murder them," Melanie stated, face still set in an excited smile. She chucked the cloth to her father, who caught it easily. "Get the back of the oven for me?"

Norwood shook his head in amusement as Melanie retreated to the bathroom, gently closing the door like that made up for all the noise. Too late Kitty realised that there were just the two of them in the kitchen. Norwood seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. He stole a glance at her and immediately went to clean the oven.

This was why it was hard to reconcile Norwood as a two-faced member of the Council and of the Commoners' Alliance now that she'd had some time to process the information. Norwood worked hard, went to greater lengths than what was expected of him, and didn't delegate or complain about tedious tasks, such as cleaning the oven.

Sure, when she thought about it, this was the type of person who should be leading the Commoners' Alliance, and this was the type of person she wanted in her government. Which, unfortunately, was why it didn't fit. Norwood didn't seem the type to take shortcuts or be willing to potentially put his family in danger by attending Alliance meetings. He also didn't seem the type to condone looting—hell, he was doing the exact opposite by running a soup kitchen every single night.

"Baking soda and vinegar," Norwood chimed from inside the oven, much like his daughter had minutes ago.

"Sorry?"

Norwood resurfaced, his blonde hair askew. He motioned to the sink with his chin. "For the pan."

"Oh, thanks," Kitty said. Deciding that she had nothing to lose, Kitty located and sprinkled some baking soda and vinegar in the pan, then set it aside. Hopefully, that would do it and she wouldn't have to kill the pan and then get a new one before anyone noticed.

Norwood cleared his throat, reclaiming Kitty's attention. He wasn't looking at her this time. "You know, I installed a camera outside. I reckon it's not much, but I didn't want you to feel unsafe leaving the bakery. I've also changed all of your shifts to day shifts."

Kitty pursed her lips, not sure whether she should thank him or take offense that he thought she couldn't handle herself. Although she could admit that recent events weren't exactly adding to her reputation.

Still, this made her even more conflicted. Was Norwood that skilled a liar? Was this some ploy to gain her trust, make her lower her guard? Was that why he looked guilty? Regardless, the fact was that Adamastor hadn't given them concrete evidence. For all they knew, Norwood's name could have just been dropped at a meeting. But—another part of her argued—why would Adamastor think it relevant to share that information if Norwood's name had just been mentioned without context? Was Adamastor lying, then? Or was Adamastor simply trying to appease them so they finished the pentacle sooner?

Well, now she was getting a headache. Brilliant.

Still unsure what the appropriate response would be, Kitty thanked Norwood and left it at that. He should've probably installed a camera before, and working the day shift wasn't a terrible plan. Besides, it was best not to raise suspicion.

She would just have to keep watching and be ready when someone slipped.

Nathaniel

The clinking of metal woke him.

Stirring and rubbing sleep from his eyes, Nathaniel's brain registered the smell of tea and instantly associated it with an old kitchen in a long burnt-down house. The pleasant, regular clinking sound continued. Next Martha Underwood would softly reprimand him for falling asleep while studying, and was he hungry? There were tea sandwiches left over from the past afternoon's gathering. Nathaniel was forming a 'no' when he was interrupted.

"He lives," drawled a familiar voice, bursting Nathaniel's fantasy bubble and grounding him back in the present. Martha's warmth receded to the depths of Nathaniel's mind.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, straightening and squinting at his surroundings. The lights in the library cast a sickly yellow glow on the room. The sun hadn't set yet, but the sky had darkened considerably. He'd wasted precious time sleeping.

In the guise of the blonde young man from the night before, Bartimaeus watched him curiously from the sofa as he stirred a steaming cup of tea. There were cinnamon biscuits on a plate on the table and Nathaniel's stomach grumbled accordingly. The corners of Bartimaeus's eyes crinkled in amusement.

He tapped the spoon on the cup and stood to put it and the plate of biscuits in front of Nathaniel, who accepted both with a genuine, albeit surprised, "Thanks".

Bartimaeus grunted in acknowledgement and folded his arms, considering Nathaniel's question. "Hard to say. I was out collecting the items you requested for the pentacle. Found you like this when I returned, clinging to that notebook of yours." Bartimaeus motioned to the desk with his head.

Nathaniel grimaced and looked down, finding his half-finished drawing of the gargoyle. Blushing profusely and heart hammering at nearly being caught, Nathaniel closed the notebook and put the teacup on top of it. He couldn't believe Bartimaeus hadn't seen it. It was right there.

And that wasn't even the worst part—a gargoyle on a roof surrounded by pesky pigeons he could get away with, but the rest of the drawings? There were scenes straight from Bartimaeus's memories of Ptolemy, like the scene at the market, their talk by the window, and—worst of all—the moment he'd last been dismissed.

Bartimaeus raised an eyebrow at his actions. "Don't want me to see your doodles?"

"No," he snapped, and then took a deep breath because he was definitely being suspicious. "You were saying about the items for the pentacle?"

Bartimaeus shrugged and leaned sideways onto the desk, startling Nathaniel enough to make him drop a biscuit. "I found what you asked for. Wasn't all that easy, with Pinn still out of business, but I am nothing if not persistent."

Nathaniel thought best not to mention how Bartimaeus had protested being given a list of items the night before, and recited that dreadful, mortifying poem about Nathaniel's eyes. He'd then melted into agreeability after both Nathaniel and Kitty had asked him if he could please do it, that they needed someone with his talents for the job.

"I never doubted you," Nathaniel said instead. It was still hard to voice his appreciation, even if he did genuinely feel it. It was always rewarding to see Bartimaeus lose his composure for a bit when he did, however.

"Yes, well. I—" He cleared his throat and Nathaniel fought a grin. "You did say please and we have an agreement."

"We do, and I intend to keep it. I heard what you said yesterday and we're changing the spirit watching Norwood every week, if we don't catch him first. I know it's not ideal, but we don't know who we can trust right now. Besides, a spirit is arguably a lot stealthier."

Bartimaeus's eyes softened, kindling a fire in the pit of Nathaniel's stomach that spread to his fingertips. Suddenly the desk seemed too big.

Someone cleared their throat. Nathaniel jumped back in his chair and Bartimaeus jumped away from the desk in perfect coordination. If they'd rehearsed it, it wouldn't have been timed so perfectly.

Shubit studied both of them with a wary glint to his bear eyes. Then he turned to Nathaniel and placed two more tomes on top of the to-read pile. "I found more information on pentacle lines and their effects in these two books. Out of the ones I perused, these have the most in-depth analyses and accounts of experiments conducted in the past centuries."

"Thank you, Shubit. Excellent work."

Shubit inclined his head in appreciation. "You honour me, Master."

Nathaniel glanced cautiously at Bartimaeus, finding him rolling his eyes at Shubit. "I told you that you don't need to call me that, Shubit. John is fine."

"Of course, Mr John."

Nathaniel sighed and gave up on the matter for the time being. "Has Adamastor shown up today? We talked about which languages would be more efficient for this pentacle yesterday, but then Adamastor said something about needing to ponder my question and fled. I was hoping he'd show up eventually."

Shubit sniffed and replied with a curt, "No."

Adamastor had to be the one topic that made Shubit lose his polite tone. He hadn't said anything directly to Nathaniel about it, but it was clear that having a hybrid in the house had irked him immensely.

Nathaniel couldn't blame him. It had taken all his self-control and constantly telling himself that Adamastor wouldn't harm him for him to be able to even be in the same room. Shubit might perceive this as a bit of a betrayal, given that they were working towards eliminating the hybrids, not housing them. Still, Nathaniel couldn't deny help to someone who'd been forced into a hopeless situation. Adamastor was just a scared spirit who wanted to return home.

Deciding that it was best not to force Shubit and Adamastor together regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, Nathaniel said, "You can stop now if you want, Shubit. I'll give these a look and do some preliminary drawings with any lines I find promising and we'll review them together tomorrow."

"Very well," Shubit said. He turned to go, but before he did, he levelled an enigmatic gaze at Bartimaeus, who returned it with the same intensity.

Nathaniel frowned, waiting until Shubit disappeared out the door to ask, "What was that? Did you pick a fight with him already?"

Bartimaeus snorted. "The other way around. Afrits—they always think they know everything."

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows at Bartimaeus.

"I know. Unbelievable, isn't it?" He shook his head. "But circling back to this pentacle of yours, what's the problem with the languages again?"

Nathaniel was so happy to hear Bartimaeus even mention the pentacle unprompted that he ignored how Bartimaeus was clearly dodging the subject. "Well, we were wondering which language would be more effective for this pentacle. So far we have Ancient Greek, Latin, and English."

"Hm, no native language from the spirit?"

Nathaniel blinked at Bartimaeus.

Bartimaeus sighed. "Spirits have mother tongues too, you know. We learn much faster than you, but we still have to learn."

"Oh." Nathaniel hadn't thought of that. He should have thought of that. It was… actually fascinating. "Is yours Sumerian?"

"Yes," Bartimaeus said, getting a distant look in his eyes. "A very dead language indeed."

Now Nathaniel wanted to learn more about it. It was one thing to learn a language for specific purposes—like learning and using magic—but Bartimaeus had spoken this language when it was alive and brimming with possibility. Would Bartimaeus teach him an expression if he asked? Would he like that Nathaniel wanted to learn? At a loss for what to say to that and not wanting to be perceived as overeager, Nathaniel bit into a biscuit, finding it still warm and soft. He considered Bartimaeus's words as he chewed.

"Adamastor was first summoned in South Africa, so…"

"So it doesn't really matter in the end, since you probably can't speak any of the prominent languages from when he was first summoned."

"Exactly." Nathaniel frowned, mildly annoyed that it was a gap in his knowledge that would possibly make things harder for the pentacle.

Bartimaeus hummed. "Then I think English is your best bet."

"It… is?"

"Think about it," Bartimaeus said patiently, settling once again against the desk. "Sumerian, Greek and Latin are not only dead languages but also not your mother tongue, or Adamastor's."

"Yes, but the original pentacles—"

"I know, I know. And there is power in using the original formula, the original words—words that had been spoken for centuries and are connected to the ritual of summoning a spirit. But there is also power in the deep understanding of one's native language. There is a reason why every magician formulates their orders in their native language, isn't there? It's another way of putting you lot at an advantage. Besides, this is ultimately a new pentacle. You need to be able to infuse meaning into every single word if you want it to work right."

Nathaniel sat there, utterly floored by Bartimaeus's words. Again, he should have thought of this. The fact that there weren't any pentacles with English text didn't mean that there couldn't be. Once more, he was realising he'd underestimated Bartimaeus for a long time. What would have happened if he'd actually decided to listen to him before?

Bartimaeus's smirk formed slowly and took over his entire face, reminding Nathaniel of their conversation by the bar at his birthday dinner. Bartimaeus had done the exact same thing with a different face. Djinn didn't just have different personalities, identities, and mother tongues. They had tics, quirks, and preferences too.

"Is this you realising how unparalleled my intellect is?"

Nathaniel ignored his teasing, more than a little overwhelmed by his epiphany and quickly grabbed the sketchbook, opening the very last blank page. "I will begin drafting the summoning text based on the original pentacles' text and existing translations, but it should be… Yes…" he said slowly, mind already far away, scribbling down a quick text from what he remembered, making sure he adapted the clauses to the specific situation. "There. What do you think?"

Bartimaeus's smirk disappeared into a wary expression. "Don't you have Shubit for that?"

"Yes, but I'm asking for your opinion. I'm told there is only one Bartimaeus of Uruk." Nathaniel shook the sketchbook in encouragement, thinking only of how much progress this would mean if it worked and how fast they could get Adamastor back home. If Nathaniel found the lines he needed in the books Shubit had brought, they could be done this week! Then it would just be a matter of finding a strategy of getting to the other hybrids.

Bartimaeus's eyes bore into his, searching for some unknown answer Nathaniel hoped he could provide.

"…Fine." And he took it.

And it was only then that Nathaniel realised what he'd done. Colour draining from his face and breath catching in his lungs, Nathaniel sprang up and reached for the sketchbook. Bartimaeus moved away with an annoyed expression.

"Jeez, give me a minute, will you? I'm sure your ideas won't fly out of your ears by then."

"They might," Nathaniel said, wide eyed, heart about to exit through his mouth, and lunged at Bartimaeus.

Bartimaeus lifted his arm, putting the sketchbook out of Nathaniel's reach. "You really need to learn patience. Wait—" Bartimaeus's annoyed expression morphed into a smirk— "Is this about your drawings? What have you been drawing, Nat?"

And, to Nathaniel's horror, Bartimaeus flicked to another page. "Ooh, Kitty. I see. At least you kept her clothes on. What is this smoke around her, though?"

"Bartimaeus, please—"

Bartimaeus ignored him and moved on to another page, still grinning impishly. "And Piper. I'm not sure they'll be happy about this."

Another page. Nathaniel forced down the urge to throw up.

"Ooh, it's me! Wait, when did you see this? Why would I think about these blasted pigeons while we were sharing—"

Bartimaeus stopped after turning yet another page, smile slowly dying on his face.

Nathaniel stopped breathing.

Bartimaeus

Words are overrated.

Many thanks to Anjum, this time especially for telling me something very obvious—you don't need to write an entire, 2,000 words long scene to express how a character feels. It only took me 18 chapters, eh?

Also, theories are welcome. I'm sure some of you have already figured out what's going on at the bridge.