Kordas blinked, because that had not occurred to him. “I’ll investigate the possibility. We have three days, after all.” He turned to Star. “I’m going back to bed, but I think you should bring me breakfast as usual.”

“Best not to break the pattern,” Star agreed. “This one will ensure that measures are taken to keep the meal hot until you are ready to eat it.”

Kordas put the scrying mirror that Star had found for him under a seat cushion. Since his own personal Dolls did all the cleaning, he knew there would be no problem with that. Then with a weary wave to Beltran, he had Star help him out of coat, waistcoat, and boots and fell onto the bed in his breeches and a loose plain shirt. The breeches wouldn’t suffer for being napped in, and neither would the stockings, and Star could get him a new shirt when he woke up.

He woke about two hours later, coincidental with another rumbling earth-shake, of two sharp jolts and then longer shudders afterward. Kordas barely touched the chain, and Star appeared with the tray, and a satchel that appeared very much like a falconer’s bag. He’d feared that his breakfast would be kept warm by magic, which, all things considered, was . . . not something he wanted to consider the source of. But this was not the time or the place to quibble about such things. He didn’t detect any trace of magic on it, so that would have to do.

“How’d you keep this warm?” he asked Star. “And what’s that?”

Star explained, “Towel-wrapped and kept in a steam chamber. This is something we have made for you. Something for your notes, and perhaps souvenirs. This one assumed that you would enjoy collecting things for sentimental reasons.” The Doll opened up the bag and wordlessly showed Kordas the wrapped package inside it, and then the inobvious pockets in the strap and body of the bag, which Kordas understood to be places to slip talismans and other items. Before he could ask about the package, Star opened it up by unlacing a tether-and-button closure, and presented its contents.

It was a carefully folded stack of long-sleeved shirts, dyed in random stormclouds, with modern flat collars and silver stitching for the lightning.

Kordas picked one up and simply gazed at it wordlessly.

“We do not know details of why this design is important to you,” Star explained, “but it is enough for us to know that it is. We consider it to be your personal signature, as much as the crest you wear is the signature of your people, so respectful care was put into its fabrication.”