Lynnia’s mouth fell open. Setting the alchemical down, she picked up a glowstone and shook it to life.

“Gyre?” she said. “Chosen defend. I thought you were dead.”

“You and almost everyone else in the city,” Gyre said, standing up. “I’d like to keep it that way, if I can.”

Lynnia got to her feet, raising the glowstone as she shuffled toward him. “I told you never to come back here.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You still working with that Kitsraea?”

Gyre nodded, and Lynnia gave a snort.

“Vile little thing, even if she is nice to look at,” the alchemist said. “You’d be better off rid of her, and—” She paused, sucked in her breath. “What happened to your eye?”

“Ah.” Gyre scratched at the ridge of scars around his left eye socket, the neat new incisions overlaying the childhood wound. It still felt so strange. “I found a replacement.”

“Is it—” Lynnia leaned closer. “That’s not just some marble. Does it work? Gyre, where did you—”

“Please,” Gyre said, retreating a little. “There are a lot of questions I can’t answer.”

“Of course,” Lynnia said. “You and that mad little girl fuck off for parts unknown after turning the city upside down, and then you turn up with a new silver eye in your head. Why would we have any questions?” She turned away, bad leg dragging. “Why did you come here, if you knew I wouldn’t have you?”

“I need to talk to Sarah. I know she’s staying with you.”

“Sarah?” Lynnia spun around, suddenly full of fury. “You don’t think you’ve done enough for Sarah already?”

“I just want to talk.”

“Well.” Lynnia huffed. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Whether she’ll see you, I don’t know.” Lynnia paused at the foot of the stair. “You might as well come up to the parlor. Make it easier to pitch you out the door.”

Gyre smiled to himself and followed her up the tight, winding steps. Entering Lynnia’s parlor felt like stepping into the distant past, for all that it had barely been a few months since Kit’s note had upended his life. The stolid respectability of it—lace cushions, neat dark curtains, polished wooden furniture—felt like a foreign country.

He settled himself in one of the overstuffed armchairs and waited. Eventually there were footsteps on the main stairs. Sarah moved slowly, as though uncertain of her balance, and Lynnia hovered close behind her.

“I’ll make you some tea, dear,” Lynnia said when they reached the bottom. “Try not to strain yourself.”

“Thank you, Lynnia,” Sarah said.