From Morgan, this was the equivalent of Emperor Constantine converting to Christianity. He was almost admitting that he had been wrong. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a penny, and dropped it to the floor.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"I'm just making sure gravity is still online," I said.

He frowned at me, then shrugged and said, "I don't trust you. I'm not committing any Wardens to your command, and, truth be told, we don't have them to spare in any case. But you may be required to participate in missions from time to time, and I will expect you to work with the other regional commander in America. He operates out of Los Angeles. He specifically requested the assignment, and given his role in recent events, he could hardly be gainsaid."

"Ramirez," I guessed.

Morgan nodded. Then he reached into his coat and produced an envelope. He handed it to me.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your first paycheck," Morgan said, and he didn't look happy to be saying it. "Monthly."

I opened the envelope and blinked. It wasn't a fortune, but it sure as hell would be a nice little addition to my earnings in the investigation business. "I never thought I would hear myself say this," I said as he started to leave, "but thank you, Morgan."

His face twisted up into something bitter, and he managed to spit out the words: "You're welcome." I think he fled before he started to puke.

Several weeks later Butters showed up at my door with a big box wrapped in Christmas paper. I let him in, and he carried it to the living room and presented me with it. "Go ahead. Open it."

I did. Inside the box was a guitar case, and inside that an old wooden guitar. "Uh," I said. "What's this for?"

"Therapy," Butters said. He'd been having me practice squeezing a squishy ball with my left hand, and, just as he'd predicted, I had slowly gained a little more control of it. "You're going to learn to play."

"Uh, my hand doesn't work that well," I said.

"Not yet," Butters replied. "But we'll start slow like everything else, and you can work up to it. Just do the lessons. Look, there's a book in the bottom of the case."

I opened the case and found a book entitled Guitar for Total Idiots, while Butters went on about tendons and metacarpal something-or-other and flexibility. I opened the book, but night had fallen and the fire was too low to let me read it. I absently waved a hand at the candles on the table beside the couch and muttered, " Flickum bicus." They puffed to light with a little whoosh of magic.

I stopped and blinked—first at the candles and then at my burned hand.

"What?" Butters asked.

"Nothing," I said, and opened the book to look over it. "You know, Butters, for a mortician you're a pretty good healer."

"You think so?"