Here's the timely update I promised. This is easily the most important and longest part of the fic, and I spent some time editing this. Not too many major changes were made, but it was fleshed out a bit, and I think it's superior to the first chapter for this reason; perhaps (if time permits) I'll go back to that part and re-edit it. There's lots of philosophy in this chapter (and in the entire fic) and an exchange that may make several vigilant shippers happy.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bartimaeus Trilogy.

Leviticus

Michael moved about the room, towards the mirror, before finally looking back at Mandrake.

"Come on, then," he said impatiently. "What're you waiting for?"

"Er –"

"Just come stand here in front of the mirror," Michael ordered. "I'll do the rest."

Mandrake obliged, and in a few seconds was staring at the mirror disdainfully. The metal had lost its luster, and there were a few scratches and dents about it; in short, it fit in with the rest of the household.

"It's old," he remarked.

Michael grunted as he drew a slip of paper from his breast pocket. "Ancient."

"What does it do?"

"It answers questions." The old man looked around the room for a few seconds before turning to Mandrake. "Do you by any chance have a pen?"

"Yes, right here."

"Thanks."

He began scribbling something down on the slip of paper, and Mandrake glanced back at the mirror. "What kind of questions does it answer?"

"Questions of probability," Michael replied. "So if you just asked it, 'Who am I?' it wouldn't give you an answer. It shows alternatives, if you will, to what is and what has been."

"Uh huh. I see."

Michael stuffed the paper and the pen in his hands. "Sign."

"What?"

"Sign it," he repeated. "Your real name, too."

Mandrake hesitated a few moments before finally doing so, and as soon as he had signed it Michael grabbed it from his hands and stuck it in a slot above the mirror. It glowed brightly for a second, and Mandrake grimaced at not having seen what had been written on it.

"I wrote the question on the paper," Michael explained, as if reading his mind. "You had to sign it because you are the beneficiary."

"Oh." Mandrake blinked. "What was the question?"

"You'll see. I think it'll give you a better perspective if you have to figure it out for yourself."

"Uh huh." He stared at the mirror, which in all actuality looked quite plain now. "And what am I supposed to do now?"

"Wait," said the old man. He smiled. "Patience is a virtue."

Mandrake just barely held back a snide comment and instead obeyed. It seemed like ages had passed – the sun was surely beginning to set, he thought sarcastically – when Michael finally spoke again.

"It's happening."

Mandrake's head swiveled towards him. "What's happening?"

His counterpart gestured to the mirror. "Look."

His head spun quickly (a bit too quickly, he thought with a grimace) back to the mirror. Mist was creeping in from the metallic edges towards the glass like a group of snakes, slithering to and fro. They seemed to vaguely resemble something, but he couldn't tell; as soon as they began to take shape they broke apart once more. Finally a thick shield of the substance covered the panel and was quite calm for a short time.

It was then that it began frothing madly, flashing different colors on a whim and contorting into different oblong shapes that really had no form. Finally it flashed silver, then black, and then a whole assortment of colors: reds, greens, blues, yellows. The mist rushed to the side, revealing a dim picture, but then back to the middle and into the picture. The picture seemed to absorb the fog, and suddenly it was almost blinding in its clarity.

"Step," ordered the man.

"Step?"

"Yes. Forward."

Mandrake knew it was no use arguing any more, long resigned to the fact that this bloody codger was out of his mind. He took a step – a step of faith, perhaps – although that's not to say his eyes were open. He wasn't that courageous, after all.

To his surprise, his foot did not meet the surface of the mirror. His eyes opened and he realized.

He was inside the picture.

"Nifty, eh?" came Michael's remark from behind him. He turned around, only to see that the Gazer had stepped through, also. "It is a mirror, but more of a doorway, if you get my meaning. Very handy."

"Where are we?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Think about it."

Mandrake looked around, then gasped. Before him was a vibrant scene; buses and cars roared past on a prominent street, and at an outside café the chatter of customers could be heard as their waiters served them. "Druid's!" he exclaimed. "That coffeehouse?"

"Yes."

"But what does this have to do with anything?" he spluttered, incredulous. "I rarely go here."

"It does not matter." Michael waved his hand airily, as if to dispel his concerns. "It was here that one of the most important events in your lifetime occurred, whether you know about it or not. It does not matter that you weren't directly involved in it, only that you were involved with it in some shape or fashion. And it is here that we shall wait."

Mandrake grunted indignantly and crossed his arms in a sophisticated manner. "Wait for what?"

"The answer."

"And precisely how long," drawled Mandrake sardonicly, "will it take for the answer to arrive? I'm a busy man."

The old man chuckled, stretching his grayed beard wide across his jawline.. "You might be busy, but you're hardly a man."

"Why –"

"Hush," Michael interrupted, bringing his finger to his lips. "We won't have to wait much longer."

"Oh really?" Mandrake was skeptical.

"Yes, really," said Michael, his words laconic. "In fact, here it comes now."

It took Mandrake a few seconds to realize what he meant, but it became rather obvious quickly. A large, slightly futuristic-looking bus came to a grinding halt outside the coffeehouse, touting a large advertisement that read: The Glass Pentacle – the revolutionary new play by visionary playwright Quentin Makepeace. Below it was a small ad reading: Support your country; support the war. It had the British flag on it, but also another flag that he did not recognize – it had countless stars and thick red stripes, but it was quite unfamiliar.

"What's that?" he inquired.

"A political ad," replied Michael. A smirk came across his face, a face which Mandrake noted to himself (in a rather biting manner) seemed to be stretched into a permanent sneer – or was it a grin? "No matter where you go, you won't escape them. A sad fact of life, I'm afraid."

"But what's –"

"Quiet. You'll miss it."

Mandrake turned back to the bus, although he wasn't sure what exactly he was about to miss. It was just an ordinary bus stop, if only odd for the fact that his lenses did not detect any spheres in the area. In fact, they didn't catch any magical activity at all.

Someone's bound to report that, he thought dryly.

The doors opened automatically and a crowd of people poured out from the bus. Some were old, some were young, but all were definitely commoners. He did not catch sight of any demons, and besides, what self-respecting magician would be caught dead using public transportation?

An elderly lady hobbled down the steps, followed by her youthful grandson. Behind them, a man with crutches stumbled his way out onto the sidewalk. Two tourists talked amiably as they stepped out into the cool London air.

Unremarkable in all aspects, he thought. I don't get what he wants me to see.

A slender and pretty girl with dark hair descended the steps, tossing her head to the side and staring fixedly right at the coffeehouse. He could've sworn she was looking at him, and he instinctively took a step backwards.

"What the hell?" he muttered in a low voice.

It had been almost three years since he'd seen the face of one Kitty Jones, although every once in a while it would nag at the back of his conscience. But here she was now, staring straight past him and into Druid's – yet it was who appeared next that shocked him.

A tall and thin teen with hair as dark as hers, worn somewhat short, emerged from the bus. He carried about him the all-too-familiar swagger of confidence, though his eyes were suspicious and alert to the point of paranoia.

Mandrake recognized the youth immediately.

It was him.

The teen – well, Nathaniel – looked to Kitty, raised an eyebrow, and smirked slightly. She returned the favor, and he held out his arm in a mocking fashion.

"Would you like to be escorted, my lady?"

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Come on, Nat. You know that's not what he meant."

"Oh, is that so?" said his mirror, feigning interest. "And I suppose that's why he sent the flowers! And the chocolates, and the money –"

"Hey," said the girl defensively, "that wasn't even him. That was my mum and dad."

"And the book that you had been wanting for ages," her counterpart finished. "Yes, yes, it makes perfect sense."

Someone tapped Mandrake's shoulder and he twisted suddenly. Michael, who he had quite forgotten in the midst of things, bore a small smile.

"Beginning to understand?" he asked.

Mandrake shook his head as the two continued their banter to his side. "Not at all. If I'm here, and he's there, then where…"

"Stop trying so hard." Michael kicked at the curb disinterestedly, looking disappointed that he didn't comprehend the situation. "Just watch."

Apparently the two had stopped their quarreling long enough to find a table outdoors. A waiter attended to them quickly, and the girl ordered a coffee.

"And you, sir?" asked the waiter.

"Tea," the two of them echoed. "And a muffin."

The waiter bowed slightly. "I'll be right out with your order."

Nathaniel watched him leave and sighed. "Let's hope this doesn't take as long as last time."

"Agreed," murmured Kitty, sliding the saltshaker absently across the table. It was odd, Mandrake thought to himself, to see her so… serene. He'd only ever seen her in the heat of battle – for some foolish reason he had thought of her as always being so tense, but naturally she wouldn't be so active at all times. "That was horrible."

"Remember the line?"

"Of course I do," she said. "There was that band here and some politician. They were promoting his campaign or something… the line was out into the street."

"And he brought that man who solved those murders down at the Tower," he continued.

"Yeah, him. What was his name?"

"Morris Fleschley? Montley Fischer? I don't remember." He grinned and pushed the saltshaker back at her. Mandrake watched with horrified intrigue. Even stranger than the girl's serenity was the boy's – his – own comfort in the presence of her. "But he looked pretty pleased with himself. He was beaming throughout the ceremony. Conceited fool."

"Oh, and you're so much better," she replied curtly. The boy's eyes narrowed and he looked down at the table irritably.

"Well, I'm not that bad!" he protested.

The situation had not gotten any more comprehendible to Mandrake with time. To be succinct, he was in utter shock. Why was this boy – him – getting along so well with Kitty Jones, a wanted convict (never mind the fact that she was dead)? They squabbled like a married couple!

"What kind of questions does it answer?"

"Questions of probability. So if you just asked it, 'Who am I?' it wouldn't give you an answer. It shows alternatives, if you will, to what is and what has been."

Then it hit him.

This wasn't the present. This was a different path, another alternative to what could have been. The only question was what had changed – what could cause him to befriend Kitty Jones?

"It's irrelevant, anyway," his mirror was saying. He scowled at the table. "And I'm not the only cocky one around here."

"Are you saying that –" She trailed off, and her eyes were wearily half-closed; obviously the subject was one brought up very often. "Oh, God. Not that again."

"Not what again?"

"Not that," she repeated. "Give it a rest, Nat! It's not like he's going to do any harm. He's just… very outgoing."

"Very outgoing my arse," breathed Nathaniel indignantly, scooting his chair backwards. "The guy's unbearable, Kitty! No one can stand him! He's always around, trying to undermine us and, I don't know, exalt himself in your eyes."

Kitty waved her hand dismissively and made a tutting noise. "Don't be stupid. He's just trying to be nice."

"Nice?" He tilted his head backwards and laughed. "He's a bastard! Ask anyone! Ask Jakob, or Stanley, or any of them!"

"You seem to have given this some thought," she spat.

"Of course I have!" His fingers rapped upon the table furiously. "You're my best friend – why wouldn't I think about it?"

"No, you're just too insecure to accept that I have other friends!" She was riled now; her eyes flickered dangerously across the table, and Mandrake was too enthralled with the tenseness of the discussion to even begin to question how the two had come to be, in his mirror's own words, 'best friends'. "You're trying to view him as an outsider, coming in to –"

"Steal my friends?" he offered dryly. He looked down at the ground, lost in thought. "Maybe he is. I don't know. Maybe you're right, and I'm being stupid. I just…. I just don't like sharing you."

That took the air right out of her. Her eyebrows rose, and her face contorted into a strange shape. After several seconds he seemed to notice this, and he glanced at her worriedly.

"You what?" Kitty spluttered.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," he said, his eyelids twitching. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh really? Then exactly how did you mean it?" For once, his mind seemed to be on the same page as hers; Mandrake wondered the same thing. Stupid boy.

"I meant…" Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "You know. I mean, it's not like that, of course… not like that… but you're, uh…"

"What?" she demanded. "I'm what?"

He looked back at her, face downcast yet his eyes were quite defiant. "You're really my only friend."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Kitty exclaimed, leaning over the table energetically. Her hair fell in front of her face in a graceful motion, framing it nicely. Mandrake grimaced to himself. Oh great, now I'm noticing how attractive a known terrorist is. "What about Stanley, or Jakob? What about Fred?"

"Oh yes, because we're all such good chums," he replied sarcastically. "The last time Fred and I were together we got into a fight, if you'll recall."

"Wasn't much of a fight, really," she muttered.

"Of course it wasn't'!" Nathaniel spluttered. "He pulled a knife on me, Kitty! A knife! The guy's got serious mental issues! And Stanley backed him up!"

She faced him, undeterred. "And what about Jakob?"

"Oh, we're nice to each other," he responded, and Mandrake felt a sudden surge of guilt at having kept the boy hostage three years back. Stop empathizing with the situation, he thought, reminding himself distinctly of Whitwell. It had to be done. "But Jakob's never felt at ease with me. Thinks I'm a predator or something."

"Well, with your personality, it's not a bad assumption!"

"Oh, so you're blaming me for this!" He was on the edge of his seat now, his face red. "You're blaming me for the fact that I'm –"

"A lonely fool, yes!" she retorted fiercely, glaring at him from the opposite side of the table. "You're the one that alienates yourself, you're the one who makes others feel as if they can't turn their back for fear of being stabbed!"

"Oh, that's rich!" he said angrily. Mandrake couldn't help but think to himself that the argument reminded him of many a talks with Bartimaeus, albeit with a little more tenacity and a little less sarcasm. "I guess I should just completely change my personality! Maybe that'll help, and I won't be friendless anymore!"

"Your tea, sir?"

The waiter had approached them now. The boy looked at him, flustered, and nodded.

"Thank you," he said as the waiter placed the tea and muffin down in front of him.

"And your coffee, madam," he continued, placing the mug on the table next to Kitty's hand.

"Thanks," she said grudgingly.

He nodded and left quickly, leaving the two alone.

Kitty took a sip of her coffee. "Well, that's not completely true," she stated calmly.

"What?"

"You're not friendless." She eyed his muffin, which Mandrake personally thought looked completely unappatizing. "You've got me."

"Ah. Yes. You." He bit into his muffin and made an odd face. "Blech – raspberries. You want it?"

"Sure."

He handed the muffin over. "Well. Right."

"And you're not a total bastard."

"I don't remember you saying I was a total bastard."

"I was going to."

"Oh." He shrugged. "Well, thank you for that."

She chewed on the muffin quietly. "You're welcome."

"You want to see more?"

Mandrake looked up for the first time in quite a while, his attention finally torn from the scene in front of him. For a moment, he had come close to actually believing it, but now that he had been broken from this reverie, he realized how he'd been deceived. Oh, it was a very clever illusion, rest assured, but he wasn't a fool, after all. He knew well enough not to trust something like this.

"No, no," he stated, "I think I should be getting back. I've seen enough of this."

"Oh," grunted Michael. "I see."

"Good." Mandrake put his hands in his pockets awkwardly and inhaled sharply. Somewhere along the exchange, he had forgotten to breathe. "I'm a very busy person, you know."

"I know," replied the old man. "But that's not what I was referring to."

Mandrake stared at him. "And what, pray tell, were you referring to?"

"You don't believe it." He smirked, laughed; Mandrake wished dearly to hit him, for all at once he felt as if he were a fool. "Not for a second."

"I am a skeptic by nature," he protested, arms crossed. "Are you saying I am wrong in being apprehensive? Where –" his voice was growing louder now, gaining in strength "– where is your proof?"

"Proof?" laughed the man, his face breaking out into that despicable sneer once more. "Are you crazy, boy? The proof is everywhere! Do you not recognize the face that your djinni has begun taking up frequently, if only to remind you of what you have done? Do you not recognize the coffeehouse – do you not recognize your city?"

Mandrake was silent, but Michael just shook his head. "Do you not recognize yourself?"

"That," Mandrake said through gritted teeth, "is not me. It's an illusion, an apparition – I don't have a damned clue, but I'm not an idiot! I know not to believe something so transparent and outrageous!"

"Oh, you know not to believe!" Now it was Michael's voice that was gaining in strength. "Is that what the magicians are teaching these days?"

"Demons!" cried Mandrake angrily. He waved his hands about, gesturing to nameless people sitting nearby. "Why not? Surely they can take up the illusion! I've seen it all before!"

Michael chuckled, almost menacingly. "My dear boy… do you see any spirits?"

Mandrake faltered. Truthfully, there weren't any demons in sight, but then again, lenses could only do so much…

"Try calling your most savage djinni." Michael's voice was orderly, commanding. His anger had lowered somewhat, but his eyes still flashed dangerously, as if he wanted nothing more than a good fistfight. "Try it. Really. We'll see who matches up better, hm?"

"Fine," Mandrake snapped. Although the Gazer's utter confidence shook him slightly, he wasn't worried: Fritang had followed him into the house, and was surely foaming at the mouth. Not the most powerful djinni, but truly a hungry one.

He snapped.

Silence.

The Gazer watched with interest.

"Fritang!" he called.

A cup smashed against the ground somewhere and his hopes rose considerably.

"Fritang!" he repeated.

Waiters hurried to clean up the mess while diners swore.

Nothing happened.

"Well, well," remarked Michael dryly, folding his arms over his chest, "nothing seems to be happening! Perhaps your most savage djinni –" these words were laced with acerbity "– is no match for a measly old mirror! I mean, after all, you couldn't have stepped into the mirror. It was a door, right? And it opened while you were distracted, looking all the while like a mirror. That's your thinking, isn't it? But Fritang hasn't gotten through… No matter! Perhaps there were foliots or djinni guarding it. That's the answer!"

"Don't be ridiculous." Mandrake spoke quietly, with unasserted anxiety. "Fritang would've alerted me instantly to their presence."

"Oh, well, then he's obviously disobeying." Michael's words were almost cruel now in their bluntness, their endless venom and derision. "Stipples it'll be, then!"

"Shut up!" Mandrake hissed. The Gazer seemed slightly taken aback by his sudden tenacity. "Shut up!"

"Ah," he commented, drawing his jacket about him in an almost regal manner. "We've got a fighter here, do we? Well, my apologies, but I'm going to have to break you down before I build you back up. That's what they're preaching in the militaries now, isn't it? But the commoners don't know a thing. You've done a good job with that –"

"You – " Mandrake glared at the two teens sitting calmly at their table " – don't – " the girl laughed, and the boy grinned, pleased with himself " – know – " she offered him a bite of the muffin, and he made a comical face which resulted in more laughter " – anything."

Michael followed his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't?" He smiled slightly. "I know enough to know that those two –" he jabbed a finger to Kitty and his mirror "– are enjoying each other's company."

Mandrake stared at them. They looked so at ease…

He looked so at ease.

"Clever thing, this," he remarked offhandedly, his anger dissipating slightly. "I don't know what it is or how you did it, but if it's an illusion, it's cleverly designed."

"Oh, so now we're not sure if it's an illusion?" Michael grinned. "I'd say that's progress, eh? In a few years of so, you might actually arrive at the truth!"

Mandrake snorted. "Oh, please. The truth is overrated."

"Pardon?"

"The commoners haven't a clue in the slightest what's going on with the war in America and they're as happy as ever." He smirked. "Blissful ignorance."

"I think you underestimate the good people of England," stated the old man simply, although Mandrake couldn't help but feel as if he was a teacher scolding his pupil. "They know more than you think. They know more than you'd like them to."

"But you just said –"

"That they don't know a thing, I know." He shrugged. "Well, for the most part they don't. But they might know one or two things."

"As I was saying," Mandrake stated, changing the subject, "it's a clever design. My lenses seem to actually be malfunctioning. I can't see any spheres at all, or demons, too, for that matter."

"Demons?" Michael gave him an odd look. "Spirits aren't demons. Does Bartimaeus look like Beelzebub to you?"

He shot him a glare. "I don't want to talk about Bartimaeus right now –"

"And the reason you can't see any spheres or spirits," continued the Gazer, unperturbed, "or any other traces of magic, for that matter, is because there are none."

"What?" Mandrake did a double-take. "What do you mean, no magic? What kind of government is this?"

"My boy, this is one of those rare cases where it isn't the government's fault," Michael replied, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. "Strange, I know, but it isn't those old fools' faults this time. You can't really expect them to do any better than they have in this instance. Don't you see?"

"See what?" Mandrake exclaimed irritably, stretching his hand out towards the coffeehouse. "I see a teenager smoking outside an adult video store, a waiter with green hair, and two mortal enemies having coffee together! What else is there to see?"

"Nathaniel," said the old man calmly, "in this alternative, there is no magic."

"No magic!" Mandrake chuckled to himself, but Michael, the damned old man, did not flinch or wince or even budge. It was then that he realized that he was serious. "What? How do they get by without any magic?"

"Commoners do it every day, don't they?" replied the old man shortly. "Not anything too exotic, is it? I think magic is vastly overrated, by the way."

"Vastly overrated? Are you crazy? It's a godsend!"

"Hm." Michael seemed indignant. "Don't remember reading that in any scriptures."

"But – but…" No matter how he protested, it seemed that the Gazer was correct. There wasn't any magic here. That explained a lot. That's why he and Jones were friends – there was nothing to keep society in place. There was nothing to separate them. In short, they didn't know any better.

What a crazy world.

"This alternative," he mumbled, ruffling his hair in annoyance. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Michael glowered at him. "Oh, don't be daft."

"I'm not being daft!" he exclaimed. He thought he'd already guessed at the answer, but hearing his counterpart explain things was much more gratifying.

"There are many alternatives," Michael explained with a sigh, irritated. "Such as: 'who would you be without magic', 'what shape would the Empire be in if Devereaux were to be assassinated', or even, 'how would you feel if you would've had more to eat for lunch than an orange'. The answer to the last one, if you're wondering, is 'much more energetic and generally more optimistic'."

"How – how'd you create this?"

"Oh, don't flatter me." Needless to say, Michael looked somewhat mollified. "I didn't create any of this. It's… a gift, you see. Ah, but that's not important."

"But how –"

"Don't worry about that. Worry about what's important."

"This doesn't make any sense!" Mandrake cried, nearly leaping into the air in protest. "How'd you do this? It's all so… so…"

"Illogical?" Michael laughed bitterly. "Well, Nathaniel, would you consider yourself a man of intellect?"

Mandrake blinked. "Of course."

"Just as I thought," murmured the old man. He closed his eyes and breathed out, yet even in a moment of complete quiet Mandrake couldn't help but feel as he still radiated with energy. "It's funny: some of the most intelligent people in the world are the ones that have the hardest times accepting the simplicity of it all. When you try so hard to understand, you will invariably fail, for the evidence is simplicity itself. It's like air – we can't see it, but we know it's there. Unless you have some theory about that, as well."

"Huh." Mandrake shook his head. "You're a crazy old man."

"Well, I'm glad I got my point across, then," Michael sighed. He looked to the table and immediately brightened up. "Hey, look. They're leaving. You're leaving, I mean."

It was true. The two had gotten up and were already halfway to the street by the time he noticed.

"Come on," he said hurriedly. "We have to follow them."

"No, we don't," responded Michael. "We've seen enough."

"Seen enough?" Mandrake retorted, incredulous. He was almost panicking. "I still have no clue in the slightest as to what's going on here! I need to see more!"

"What do you need to see? There's nothing left to see. You've seen it all – whether you understand is a moot point. That's your job."

"Then what was the point of doing this at all if I'm not going to understand?" Mandrake was frantic now. He had to find out the secret to all of this; he had to understand. "There was no point! Now I'm even more confused! I don't know why or how any of this is going on! I know nothing!"

Michael didn't look very flustered. "It is not the knowing that is important. It is the understanding."

"What? You just said whether I understood is a moot point!"

"To me it is," he explained calmly. "I've shown you what you needed to see. You didn't need to know why or how – you just needed to comprehend and understand. I can't help you do that. You have to accomplish that by yourself. Until you realize that sometimes you don't really need to know, you're going to be stuck. You're overcomplicating things."

"I don't really need to know? Then what do you propose I do?"

"Understand. Trust." Michael cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. "Trust for once in what your heart wants you to do. Stop trying to overthink things. You don't need to know why, not now. Later, yes, but you'll know when that time has come. Right now, you just need to understand how this is significant."

Mandrake made a mocking gesture. "Oh, yes. How is this significant?"

"It answers your original question, doesn't it? Or at least makes it clearer."

"My original question?" His eyes widened. "Oh yes. Who I am. Right."

"Yes."

He bit his lip and looked back at the empty table somberly. "This… this didn't help at all. All it did was confuse me."

"Inquiry is the first step in understanding," stated the old man with a knowing smile. "Confusion is the second step."

"And what's the third step?"

For a brief second Michael's eyes flashed. "Acceptance."

"Right. And I seem to be stuck in step two."

"Not 'stuck', per se." Michael scratched his chin. "More like 'willingly staying in the same place'."

"I'm not –" Mandrake tugged at his hair "– I'm not willing!"

The old man grinned. "My point exactly."

"That is not what I meant and you know it."

"I know," he conceded. "But at least it was true."

"You are impossible!" the magician exclaimed. He shook his head and kicked a pebble irritably. This was all very confusing. "Okay, how about this: let's say that I believe you and your crazy premise that this is what my life would've been like without magic. So, Ms. Jones and I are acquaintances in this alternative. I fail to see how this really applies to my situation or helps me at all."

The Gazer sighed. "My boy, I am not saying that alternatives are the most important thing by any means in finding or judging yourself, but they are helpful. If given an equal playing field, you and Ms. Jones would've become friends. But you didn't, for magic exists. Yet still… does this not help you? Does this not make you see how close you are, how thin the line is?"

"I…" Mandrake trailed off, looking away. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"Perhaps you could make up for past amends."

"Oh, yes, the opportunities are golden!" Mandrake laughed darkly. He still refused to look at Michael – he still couldn't understand. "Right after I resurrect her, that is! You old fool, she's dead! Jones is dead!"

Michael crossed his arms over his chest discerningly, and for some reason appeared… triumphant?

"Now, I wouldn't say that."