Hello, hello! And here we are, just a few days short of a month's wait. Both my dear beta, anjumstar, and I are now busy with work, so unfortunately I can't promise faster updates. Let's give her some love for sticking with me this far—a girl couldn't ask for a better beta.
(Also, we're most likely to find out what the artefact is next chapter, so now's your last chance to share your theories and earn bragging rights for eternity!)

Chapter Nineteen

undignified

Nathaniel

Nathaniel grunted as another punch landed on his arm, but he didn't protest. He wouldn't give Bartimaeus the satisfaction.

"Widen your stance, tighten your core," Bartimaeus said evenly, coolly. Like it didn't matter to him whether Nathaniel did or not. "We're not doing specific moves today, so apply what you learned so far." Then, before Nathaniel could recover, Bartimaeus punched his other arm, making him lose his balance all over again. Bartimaeus quirked an eyebrow at him, daring Nathaniel to make him repeat himself.

It had been like this ever since the other day in the library. In the past three days, Bartimaeus had left Nathaniel's meals ready on the table but was never there, trained him for the stipulated amount of time, sticking to providing only the necessary feedback and saying nothing else. There were no jokes, no sarcasm, no calling Nathaniel 'strawberry cheeks' or an equally ridiculous variation, no useless commentary about how his trousers would be the death of him in the real world.

There was just silence.

Nathaniel shook off Bartimaeus's punches and got in position. This was no longer self-defence training. Somewhere along the way, it'd evolved into combat training, just like physiotherapy had evolved into self-defence. Which was fine. Given how often his life was in danger, Nathaniel could stand to learn a thing or two about defending himself and knocking someone out.

Bartimaeus effortlessly glided away from Nathaniel's kick, then grabbed on his heel and pulled him along the floor, sending Nathaniel sliding through the room. Nathaniel groaned as he collided with the wall, but not from the impact. Bartimaeus was still going easy on him, even though Nathaniel had been discharged from the hospital a month and a half ago. It definitely wasn't out of consideration for his condition, however—it was an insult.

It made Nathaniel's blood boil.

He got up and immediately lunged at Bartimaeus, who caught him by the waist and slammed him to the floor. "Up," Bartimaeus said. Nathaniel gasped for air, watching him move around in a loose circle.

Bartimaeus was in the guise of a muscular East Asian man, with close-cropped raven hair and dark eyes that were void of Bartimaeus's usual mirth and mischief. He moved graciously, never losing balance or focus, not wasting a single movement, which was another alien aspect to pile onto Bartimaeus's recent behaviour. Bartimaeus was chaotic and disorganised. He thrived on improvisation and pushing the limits of what was presentable—adding horns and tails and scales on a whim whenever the clauses of the summons weren't explicit enough.

And therein lay Nathaniel's other problem—Bartimaeus was always choosing these ridiculous human guises now, especially while they were training. He didn't know where Bartimaeus found all of these people. Had he been assigned a job where he was in close proximity to models or athletes? Were djinn forced to participate in the Olympics? No, surely there were laws that prevented that…

Meanwhile, Nathaniel was sweaty and undoubtedly red in the face. He felt too hot and too annoyed to properly use his brain. And it was taking all his focus and energy to block Bartimaeus's attacks and resist the urge to ogle him, so how would he ever be able to actually do some damage?

This didn't mean that Nathaniel didn't want to punch Bartimaeus's perfectly straight nose, however. Oh no, far from it. Nothing would give him greater satisfaction at the moment than seeing Bartimaeus's startled expression afterwards, not to mention that he might get a respite from this frosty attitude.

Deciding that it was better to cooperate and get it over with, Nathaniel sucked some more air into his lungs and did as he was told, glaring daggers at Bartimaeus the whole time. How was it his fault that he'd seen those memories? He hadn't meant to. He didn't want them messing with his head all the time either. Things were confusing enough without Bartimaeus and Ptolemy's whispered 'I love you's or Bartimaeus's steady, palpable affection for Ptolemy seeping into every second of every memory. These weren't Nathaniel's memories and he didn't care. Bartimaeus could have them back. Bartimaeus could erase them from Nathaniel's mind, pretend he'd never seen them, and go back to calling Nathaniel 'strawberry cheeks'.

Nathaniel didn't want them.

He wished he'd burned that wretched sketchbook.

With lead in his stomach and lava in his veins, Nathaniel attempted to feint left and strike right, aiming for Bartimaeus's knee like he'd been taught. Nathaniel's foot brushed against the side of Bartimaeus's knee, but otherwise missed. Bartimaeus whirled around, grabbed Nathaniel's arm, and threw him over his shoulder.

Nathaniel landed on his back again, wind knocked right out of him and head reeling from the impact.

"Getting cosy over there?" Bartimaeus asked, taking to circling him again. "I don't know why we've been building up that core strength if you're going to insist on not using it to keep your balance."

"You say that like it's easy," grumbled Nathaniel, rolling back up with difficulty and rubbing dust off his clothes in a pathetic display of resilience. "And what do you even understand about core strength anyway? Don't tell me you do crunches in your free time."

Bartimaeus was arching an elegant eyebrow at him and unnecessarily pulling back his hair, in what could only be another attempt at mocking Nathaniel. His loose shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of toned skin. Nathaniel looked away quickly, grateful for once that his face was already red.

"Perfection doesn't need to be improved upon."

Nathaniel had never fought this hard to refrain from rolling his eyes. "You sound like an advertisement."

"You would know, eh?" Nathaniel shot him a heated look, wishing more than ever that he could get close enough to smack him. But the edge to Bartimaeus's voice was gone the next second, as he returned to his icy persona: "You'll never get me if you keep repeating the same mistakes."

"You won't tell me what they are," Nathaniel hissed. "And don't say it's my bloody stance and core engagement."

Bartimaeus shrugged. "Next time you're in danger, I won't be whispering in your ear how to proceed."

"Oh, I know. You've made that abundantly clear. You'll just run in the opposite direction, like usual."

"Excuse me?"

Bartimaeus's eyes flashed and all Nathaniel could think was: Finally. "You heard me."

"Oh, that is priceless coming from you, Mr Avoidance."

"Pot. Kettle. Black," Nathaniel spat, getting right in Bartimaeus's face. It really shouldn't be this easy to rile him up. He really needed to get a hold of his recent temper flares. But now all he saw was red and Bartimaeus's very puncheable face.

"At least I don't manipulate others and withhold information for my own personal gain."

"That is literally what you do all the time! That's precisely what you did with Kitty—"

And the next thing Nathaniel knew, Bartimaeus had knocked his legs from under him, making Nathaniel fall once again on his rear. Nathaniel huffed upon contact, then rolled around into a ball as the pain in his back ebbed away.

Nathaniel had felt very tender towards Bartimaeus earlier in the week, a result from his help during the hallucinations and later after the nightmare. But now there was very little of that tenderness left.

It was with this thought at the forefront of his mind that Nathaniel scrambled to his feet and lunged at Bartimaeus, who swirled away like a ballerina.

"Straight to offense now, are we?"

Nathaniel let out a frustrated growl in response and went for another punch, getting the same result. This time he spun around as Bartimaeus did, with an arm outstretched, ready to smack Bartimaeus's ear with the side of his hand. But Bartimaeus caught Nathaniel's wrist, and then the front of his t-shirt.

He yanked. Nathaniel widened his stance and bent his knees slightly, throwing his weight back and allowing Bartimaeus to remove his t-shirt as he broke free from the djinni's grip. Nathaniel grinned wickedly as Bartimaeus blinked at the t-shirt in his hands and then gaped at Nathaniel. But Nathaniel was already moving, going straight for the kill and ignoring Bartimaeus's raised hand and half-formed, "Now hold on a mi—!"

Nathaniel punched Bartimaeus in the face.

In hindsight, Nathaniel reckoned Bartimaeus had probably been too distracted to stop him and he'd lucked out. Plus, if he hadn't been so desperate to strike Bartimaeus, he would have calculated better and not jumped at him, causing the both of them to fall in a mess of limbs and a chorus of pained groans. And his knuckles wouldn't be screaming at him.

Nathaniel quickly pulled himself to sitting—not one to let this golden opportunity pass—straddling Bartimaeus's stomach, his grin all teeth. For once he was the one pinning Bartimaeus down and he refused to be embarrassed when he'd finally managed to erase the stupid, cocky smirk off Bartimaeus's face.

Pressing his palms to either of Bartimaeus's shoulders to keep him down, Nathaniel gave them a little push and declared, "Ha! Got you."

He really should have seen the change in Bartimaeus's eyes, however. The minute those words left his mouth, Bartimaeus jolted upright, grabbing Nathaniel's hip and throwing his head back for a headbutt. Nathaniel closed his eyes, desperately wiggling and pushing against Bartimaeus's shoulders.

Bartimaeus's forehead softly bumped against his. "And you're out, genius," he whispered just as Nathaniel exhaled in relief and relaxed his hold.

But then Nathaniel opened his eyes, finding Bartimaeus's face still too close for comfort. And yet, there was not a single fibre in his being repulsed by the proximity. The urge to punch Bartimaeus had inexplicably evaporated as well.

Nathaniel shuddered as Bartimaeus's nails ghosted over his skin, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps and heat. He searched Bartimaeus's eyes, finding a fire that mirrored his own. Bartimaeus licked his lips, and Nathaniel's stomach tightened. There was an animalistic sound coming from either of them. And then Nathaniel's hand was moving to grasp at the hairs on Bartimaeus's nape and Bartimaeus's arm was pulling him closer. Dizzy and high, Nathaniel tilted his head.

The door flew open.

"You won't believe—Oh, hello."

Bartimaeus flipped them so that Nathaniel landed on his back. Again. Of fucking course. "And that's why you always keep your eyes on your opponent," Bartimaeus rushed out, looking all dishevelled and inviting, God damn it.

Skin still tingling and more than a little breathless, Nathaniel grunted and pushed Bartimaeus off him, rolling to the side and getting up on shaky legs. He tried to hide his naked upper body as much as possible, taking special care to cover his side.

Bartimaeus handed him the discarded t-shirt without so much as looking at him. Nathaniel rushed to put it on.

"A little unorthodox, but it worked."

Was that a compliment? Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at Bartimaeus, but the djinni was already busying himself with returning the coffee table to its rightful place in the centre of the room and needlessly fluffing up and rearranging the pillows on the sofa.

As the awkward silence stretched and stretched, Kitty just stood there, looking between the two of them with this mischievous expression that instantly made Nathaniel wary. Her choice to not break the silence was very deliberate, and it pressured Nathaniel into blurting out, "We were just finishing up training."

"Is that what we're calling it nowadays? It looked more like kissing and making up." Kitty's shit-eating grin only grew as Bartimaeus tripped over the coffee table's leg. Nathaniel's already red face intensified a couple shades.

"As I was saying," Kitty mercifully continued, "you won't believe who's here."

"…Go on."

"Mr Button." Kitty grinned. "He found something."

Piper

The wedding was lovely.

At least Piper thought it was—she didn't have a single reference to pull from. Magicians did not marry often—much less those in power—thanks to the paranoia that came with the territory. She'd heard the receptions were grandiose, that there were rows upon rows of food and elaborate performances by artists from all over the world, and all she could think was that it probably was more of a networking event than a celebration of love.

But Malia and Alexander's wedding was nothing like that.

There weren't many people in attendance, for starters, and all of them had contributed something to the wedding—food, tablecloths, silverware. Marcus saved Piper with his surprising cooking skills, so Piper brought Shepard's pie. It was a smashing success.

There were vows and kisses and smiles, an emotional homage paid to Malia's late father, a band created by friends who took turns embarrassing both bride and groom, and a bouquet toss that smacked Piper in the forehead before the woman next to her grabbed it and cheered like a fierce warrior. There were will-o'-the-wisps illuminating and warming the room, and a foliot disguised as an iguana keeping them in check. There were winter wildflowers in Malia's braided hair (which would never be found near a London magician's stiff updo), and in small, mismatched glasses on the tables. There were happy tears in Alexander's eyes.

And there was a waffle tower.

Piper had snorted when she'd realized that the wedding cake was a stack of fluffy waffles with cream and berries and more flowers, but she wasn't laughing now. Now she was too busy groaning in pleasure and stabbing another forkful. Amare and Ezekiel gave her amused looks from the floor. They were in lynx guises this time—a compromise between domestic cats and lionesses. Not that anyone seemed perturbed by their presence. Piper had seen all sorts of exotic fauna inside that tent, from pygmy hippos to rainbow birds.

"There you are! And hello to you too, Ezekiel, Amare," Malia said, easily sliding into the chair beside Piper's. She was wearing a short, off-the-shoulder white dress with lace sleeves, and very lucky that the tent had heating, in Piper's opinion. Ezekiel and Amare blinked lazily up her, the tips of their tails slowly rising and falling in contentment. "You certainly made a run for it after that bouquet toss. I thought you'd already left. How're you enjoying the wedding?"

"I'm not sure catching bouquets is the sport for me. The waffles are delightful, though," Piper said, cutting another small piece. "I may have to steal some for my trip home."

"Or I could get you the recipe."

Piper rose her champagne glass to Malia. "That'd be much appreciated."

Malia grinned. "And I'll pass on your feedback to my mother. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to learn that the Prime Minister of England approves. You must go to so many events."

Piper decided not to tell her it was her first wedding. "You didn't bring your husband with you? I thought you'd be joined at the hip today."

"Making the rounds. Divide and conquer, he said. Mighty fine strategist even on our wedding day." Malia said all this with so much affection that Piper's waffle tasted bitter in comparison.

By the food table, Nurse Paula was helping herself to a waffle and laughing boisterously at something Alexander had said. Apparently feeling himself being watched, Alexander looked up and found them staring. His eyes practically sparkled as they landed on his wife. Malia's smile grew and grew until Piper felt very much like a third wheel.

She shook her head good-naturedly and averted her gaze, letting it roam the room through the people dancing and chatting and eating. One of Malia's friends had picked up a guitar and was singing earnestly about choosing someone. His features reminded her of Romeo—the curly dark hair, square jaw, bushy eyebrows and slightly crooked nose. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she pictured him serenading her.

Piper downed the rest of her champagne, thankful that no one had dropped it on her this time around. Apparently that was all it took to make her swoon.

"You okay?" Malia asked, patting her back. Piper didn't know when they'd got to that point. After signing the treaty, they had thrown a small celebration inside the tent, keeping it out of the press's noses. Piper had spent the rest of the week with Malia, sometimes with Alexander as well, when he wasn't too busy. Malia couldn't take her sightseeing a lot because of the last-minute preparations for the wedding, but Piper had managed to see a little of Boston proper, which was indeed a lot like London—like any other city, truly—but a tad more organised. It still baffled her that many streets had been assigned numbers instead of actual names, however.

She liked Malia. Piper was still recovering from the stunt she'd pulled, but after this week of getting to know her, it was hard not to warm up to her. Everyone else did. Malia was loved by civilians and soldiers alike. She could barely walk three steps without someone stopping her for a greeting or an actual conversation. It was a bit ridiculous, actually.

Yes, Piper was a little jealous.

"I'm okay. I should get going, though. I have to make another stop before going back home."

Malia stared at her for a minute, and then gave her a respectful nod. "Call on me before you go? I have something for you."

Piper nodded and finished her waffle, savouring the very last bite slowly as her resolve steeled in her stomach.

If anything, she would definitely come back for the recipe.

Speaking of coming back, here she was again—same tent, similar scrubs, different nurse.

Piper stared at the canvas separating her from the room and thought of all the things that could go wrong. That could go wrong again. Then she swallowed them before they could come out of her.

"No one comes in unless I call, understood?"

"I still advise against it, Madam Prime Minister," Marcus said from behind her. There was a machine right beside Piper, making it so cramped that Marcus and Carl had been forced to form a line behind her. "At least take your djinn."

Piper looked at Ezekiel and Amare, the picture of serenity in their lynx guises. "No," she said. "I'm going there alone. This is my responsibility."

Without waiting for a response, Piper nodded to the nurse and was let into the room. This time, she'd been expected. Not all the patients were there. She didn't know where they'd been taken, but the message was clear—they didn't want to hear anything she had to say.

That was fine. She'd expected as much.

Piper took a deep breath and said, "Hello."

The word hung in the air for a while, awkward and heavy like a boulder. The youngest soldier that had identified her the last time glanced around the room before greeting her back. "Hi."

"Hi." Bollocks, she'd already said that. Think, Piper. Use some of that large vocabulary you've acquired throughout your years as a magician. "Um… I think Malia's told you—"

"She did," he replied, then turned around on the bed, keeping his back to her.

Off to a great start, then.

Piper cleared her throat, trying to meet the eyes of anyone in the room, and not finding much success. There were eight people left, and she hadn't paid enough attention back then to know who'd wanted to strangle her and who'd remained calm, but she assumed the former weren't in the room.

"How are you all doing today?" She had to start somewhere, didn't she?

"Just peachy," spat a voice from the back of the room. "Staying in this room is bloody optional by now, you know? We just like the food."

Piper winced at the animosity. Well, there went her theory that those who'd remained weren't as hostile. Maybe some had stayed just to give her a piece of their minds. "Listen, I know it hasn't been easy—"

"Oh, you do, eh? I wouldn't image you did, what with all the commodities you enjoy, but I suppose I was wrong, then. If Madam Prime Minister says she knows what it feels like, then it must be true. After all, magicians never lie—no, they just want what's best for us. It's all in our best interests, it is. We'll return home to a small fortune and other fantastic rewards we can barely imagine."

And here it was—the materialisation of her nightmares. She couldn't refute anything this man was saying—and worse still, she couldn't promise him anything better than his current situation without lying. Maybe if London weren't a wreck, there would be a way to offer a small compensation to the soldiers who'd fought for the Empire, but as things were, it was impossible. Going by numbers alone, some of their families wouldn't even have a home for them to return to. That was part of the reason she'd been so adamant on the programme for repurposing late magicians' houses, and the houses of those who hadn't left anyone behind to inherit them—though this last was becoming a property nightmare. It was a temporary solution, of course, and that was the one thing they could offer estate agents, but this meant that rebuilding was a temporary problem. It had to be.

Piper looked at the man straight in the eye—he only had one visible; the other was covered in bandages. He was short and stocky and probably around forty, with a mess of dark hair peppered with grey strands and a week-long beard. His left leg was completely bandaged and held up. His right leg was missing. There was a scar on his face that reminded her of Nathaniel and his many scars. She thought of how differently she'd acted when it'd been her friend in a hospital bed. Didn't this man—who'd fought just as hard and sacrificed so much—deserve the same kindness from her?

"You're right, Mr—" She checked the tag at the end of the bed. "—May I call you Jack?"

"How could I say no?"

Piper ignored the jab. She couldn't let them get a rise out of her, she couldn't react like she'd been doing until then—stomping her foot, and shouting over everyone else in order to be heard.

She was always shouting to be heard.

"You're right, we failed you," she said instead, as softly as she dared without veering towards condescension. Jack's face relaxed, losing some of its animosity but keeping its wariness, and Piper glanced around the room, meeting equally suspicious expressions. "We failed all of you. I've failed you, and I'm here to apologise and to offer you a way back home to your families, whenever and if you feel ready."

"That's not enough," said Jack calmly, shaking his head like there was no more fight left in him. "Can you get my leg back, eh? Go back in time and stop that demon from detonating it? Can you get my finger back?" He held up a bandaged hand where there was a stump instead of a thumb. "I will never paint again. And I was good, you know? Might have become something. But I had a family to feed and your government was so full of promises. Now all I'll ever be is a burden."

Piper took a deep breath. She wouldn't insult this man with her crying. London had done this. Piper had done this. She'd destroyed countless lives without sparing a minute to think about them because 'she was just doing her job', 'serving the Empire'.

"I didn't come here to pretend I have all the answers, or that I can fix anything. But I want you all to know that I've talked to President Williams and he will be implementing programmes for war veterans that will extend to British soldiers who meet certain requirements."

She heard the young man who had greeted her shuffling in bed—his name was Henry. She couldn't believe it'd take her this long to notice the name tags.

"You may return home if you're rejected, and you may return home if you're accepted and changed your mind. And you may return home whenever you're cleared for travel. England is eternally in your debt, and we will always have a place for you back home. A life could never be a burden."

Piper was startled by a sniffle. Jack covered it up quickly, dragging his unbandaged hand across his eyes and loudly clearing his throat. He gave Piper a nod and she nodded back. She didn't have any words of comfort. She was out of initiatives for the moment. And there were no words to bring back what Jack had lost, what all these people had lost.

So she said goodbye and stopped intruding on their time.

By the time Piper made it to the aeroplane, the sun was setting and Malia and Alexander were waiting for her. Malia smiled when she saw her, coming forward to pull Piper into a warm hug. Unsure what to do with this new milestone in their very strange relationship, Piper patted her back and hoped that was enough.

Malia seemed unfazed when she pulled back. "So it went okay."

It wasn't a question, but Piper felt compelled to answer regardless: "It wasn't a complete disaster."

"I'm glad." And she sounded like she meant it too.

President Alexander cleared his throat. "We won't keep you any longer. You must be eager to return."

On Monday, the answer would've been an easy "Yes," but now there was a bittersweetness lodged in her throat. Was it possible that it'd only been a week? It felt like a month. A rollercoaster of a month.

"I'd love for you to visit."

"I think that can be arranged. We'll be in touch."

Piper nodded, unsure of what to say next. The plane was ready, her team was ready, she was as ready as she'd ever be, but her mind was still back in the hospital tent. Malia gave Alexander a look and he nodded in response, signalling for their security detail to give them room. Finally, he turned to Piper and warmly shook her hand.

"Goodbye, Rebecca. It was a pleasure to have you."

"Goodbye, Alexander. The pleasure was all mine."

And with another nod to Malia, he walked away to join his security at the edge of the clearing. They still had a clear enough view of her and Malia, but it was a risk. Piper appreciated it more than she could say.

Malia wasted no time in pulling out a folded paper from a pocket in her dress. "The promised recipe." She handed it to Piper with a flourish, who smiled as she skimmed the contents. Maybe she could make it for Kitty and Nathaniel next Sunday. She should be all settled in by then.

Malia had grown unusually quiet, fidgeting with the bracelet she always seemed to carry. Case in point—her wedding dress on her wedding day.

Finally, Malia nodded resolutely and removed the bracelet to hand it to Piper. Piper blinked up at her.

"I want you to have it."

"What? No. You clearly love this bracelet."

Malia smiled sadly. "It was never meant to be mine. I took it from one of your soldiers."

Piper let that information sink in. So Malia had fought in the battles. And she'd killed and hurt British soldiers. Piper had wondered about that ever since she'd seen Malia decimate three targets with a single arrow, but to picture her actually taking someone's life and then take one of the dead's possessions…

"I know what you're thinking," she said softly. "I did what I had to. We all did. If I hadn't killed that soldier, he would've killed me. I don't enjoy taking another person's life, and I am sorry that many good people died at my hands, but I can't tell you I would go back and do it differently. Besides, this bracelet wouldn't serve that soldier, wherever he went."

Piper looked at the bracelet in her hand. It was a cuff bracelet—possibly silver; maybe for protection—at least two centimetres wide but lighter than expected. There were engravings all over the surface, and Piper would have to look at them later when the sun wasn't at her back—maybe find a clue as to the owner's identity.

"It's a special piece," Malia continued. "I'll be sad to see it go, but I think it's more your style."

Piper wasn't sure why Malia would think that—she'd never worn a cuff bracelet this wide. But she also didn't want to be impolite.

"Madam Prime Minister," Marcus said, appearing at her side. "We're ready for departure whenever you are."

"Thank you, Marcus." She turned back to Malia. "And thank you for the gift. I'll cherish it."

Malia smiled. "Safe travels, Rebecca. I have a feeling we'll see each other very soon."

Bartimaeus

Djinn don't think in words. (1) I would say that spirits in general don't think in words, but thought is not a gift given aplenty. Djinn revisit their memories and picture concepts and then attach a word or expression to it in the right language, when possible. So I'd spent the rest of the week trapped in my memories of Ptolemy after the stunt Mandrake had pulled, trapped in a constant loop of him dying and freeing me with the last of his strength. And then thinking of stupid Nathaniel dismissing me when he could barely breathe.

(1) I know, you'd be fooled by my large vocabulary, but it is not how we work. For one thing, we don't need words in the Other Place. For another, one of the very first things we learn how to do when we're first summoned is mould ourselves.

Needless to say, I still hadn't found the words for these concepts, although some came close: betrayal, violation, magician.

My memories are mine alone. Memories are a spirit's identity, the only thing they truly own—we don't even choose our names. And memories are the one thing a magician cannot take from us. But it figures Mandrake would've found a way.

It figures Mandrake would lower my guard with his earnest apologies and soft-spoken compliments while saving this blow for later. He'd probably been plotting to use it in his favour somehow. After all, that was the typical magician move.

No, I still don't have the words.

Kitty

Kitty paced the pavement outside Nathaniel's house, hands continually trying to find the Amulet to fiddle with and touching nothing but the fabric of her coat. She'd given it to Nathaniel to use in order to lift the Seal or Shield or whatever that was happening at the bridge.

Kitty should have gone too—Mr Button's theory was still buzzing in her head, and if he was right, they really couldn't allow the artefact to fall into the wrong hands. But Nathaniel had shoved his pentacle drawings and schematics into her hands and begged her to show them to Adamastor and ask them to stay. Nathaniel was planning on beginning tests as soon as he came back, and he wanted Adamastor there for it. Plus—according to Nathaniel—Adamastor was the most comfortable with her, so it made sense that she was the one staying behind.

It was all bollocks. Nathaniel and Bartimaeus had pulled this stunt before, when they'd nearly walked to their deaths.

Besides, she'd been outside waiting for Adamastor for at least half an hour. There would've been no need for Kitty to stay behind if Adamastor had shown up earlier—she'd left a bedsheet pinned to her window like they'd agreed right before Adamastor had scattered the other day. She'd done that immediately after Mr Button was gone, right before lunch. It'd been hours since then—night had fallen, and blessedly it hadn't rained, so why wasn't Adamastor there yet?

Kitty was about to go inside and hoist the damned sheet like a flag when she heard something drag against the pavement. It was growing closer, sounding in irregular intervals, like whoever was coming had a load to drag and was yanking on it every so often.

Kitty pressed her back to the fence and a hand to her dagger and waited.

When Adamastor materialised under the streetlight, Kitty almost didn't recognise them. There were cuts everywhere, turning Adamastor's scales purple and orange. There were double the arms and triple the eyes protruding from their legs and belly. And there were wings attached to Adamastor's bony back—or more like a wing. It was ellipse-shaped and misty, a bit like a cloud.

"Came… as soon… as I could."

Kitty clamped her mouth shut and rushed to Adamastor, helping them sit down against the fence. "Bloody hell, what happened to you?"

Adamastor tried to shift a little, apparently favouring their left side, and Kitty put her hands gently under Adamastor's shoulders to give them a boost. Adamastor whimpered as they settled on their side. When Kitty pulled her hands away, they were full of a liquid, shimmery substance. She swallowed and rubbed her trembling hands against her jeans.

"He… he found me."

"Who did?" Kitty asked urgently, eyes travelling all over Adamastor's beaten form, finding even more bruises and cuts than she'd first noticed.

"Asmodeus. He—" Adamastor doubled over, pressing a hand to their lower stomach. "He ambushed me. Attacked me when I was coming here."

Kitty swallowed down a wave of guilt. It wasn't her fault Asmodeus was a miserable piece of shit. "Is he coming? Because I'll punch him into next year," she growled instead, jumping to her feet and squinting at the empty night.

Adamastor shook their head. "I lost him… I think. But he's out there. We must find him, and—"

"Woah, you're not going anywhere," Kitty said, pressing her palms against Adamastor's sticky shoulders to keep them down. Adamastor grimaced at the effort. "John's finished the pentacle. Did you hear me? John's finished it. And he'll be here soon."

"He did?" Adamastor whispered, and for a moment, their face cleared. It was like they were watching a dream unfold. "He really did it."

"Yes, he did." Kitty allowed herself a small smile, kneeling down again to help Adamastor. "We'll get you inside now, get you cleaned up."

Was there a way to clean a spirit—a hybrid? Was there a way to stop their essence from pouring out? Bartimaeus had been wounded after the encounter with Asmodeus, but he'd just waited it out. Kitty didn't know if waiting it out was an option for Adamastor. She didn't know if hybrids worked differently, since they had an earthen vessel, not to mention that Adamastor had long outgrown their human shape.

She could get started on the pentacle. She would go through Nathaniel's notes and begin setting up. That way, when he came back, he could just check everything and get straight to it. They wouldn't have time for proper trials, but the logic was sound as far as Kitty could tell. And this was Nathaniel—he was annoyingly brilliant, maybe even a genius.

And there really was no other option, was there?

Adamastor huffed when Kitty hoisted them up over her shoulder. "Ms Jones."

Kitty turned her head to them but kept walking, not wanting to waste a single second. Adamastor was heavier than they looked, and she wasn't as strong as she once was. Her body was trembling just from holding them up. "Yes?"

"Asmodeus… He was looking for something. He kept beating me because he thought I had the information he wanted, but I didn't."

Kitty frowned at the pavement. "Keep your strength. We'll figure it out once John is here—"

"Where did you say Mr Mandrake went?"

"London Bridge. He's, um… he's on a bit of a mission."

Adamastor halted right outside the gate, forcing Kitty to stop too. She wished they hadn't. Standing was somehow worse than walking. She'd have to get the foliots to carry Adamastor inside, otherwise she'd topple over before they made it to the stairs.

"Ms Jones, does this mission involve residual magic?"

Oh, she did not like the sound of that. "Yes, but—"

"We must go. Immediately."

And Adamastor started limping in the opposite direction of the gate. Kitty nearly tripped over her feet to keep up.

"You can't go anywhere like this! Look at you!"

Adamastor stubbornly shook their head. "Must save Mr Mandrake."

"No offense, but you wouldn't be able to save a fly from a spider in this state. I'll go. You get inside and wait for us." She would have to call a taxi as soon as she got inside—it'd take too long on foot—and she would have to use Nathaniel's name to get faster service. Maybe Piper's too…

Adamastor shook their head again. "There's no point waiting for the pentacle to work if Mr Mandrake is dead."

"But—"

"I'm faster. I'll fly."

"Wait a mi—"

But they were already flying.