I picked up the envelope and unfolded a sheet of plain paper certifying that its bearer had been approved by the White Council to act as emissary in the matter of the duel. I passed my hand over it and muttered a quick charm with the last password I'd gotten from the Wardens, and in response a brief glowing pentacle appeared centered on the paper like a bioluminescent watermark. It was legit.

I folded the paper closed again, but I didn't set my rod and staff aside just yet. I undid the dead bolt, muttered my wards back, and opened the door enough to see outside.

A man stood on my doorstep. He was nearly as tall as me but looked a lot more solid, with shoulders wide enough to make the loose black jacket he wore fit tightly on his upper arms. He wore a navy blue shirt and stood so that I could see the wrinkles caused by the straps of a shoulder rig. A black ball cap reined in dark golden hair that might have fallen to his shoulders. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and had a short, white scar below his mouth that highlighted the cleft in his chin. His eyes were grey-blue and empty of any expression in a way I had seldom seen. Not like he was hiding what he felt. More like there was simply nothing there.

" Dresden ?" he asked.

"Yeah." I eyed him up and down. "You don't look very Archive-esque."

He lifted his eyebrows, a mildly interested expression. "I'm Kincaid. You're wearing a gun."

"Only when company comes over."

"I haven't seen any of the Council's people carrying a gun. Good for you." He turned and waved his hand. "This shouldn't take long."

I glanced past him. "What do you mean?"

A second later, a little girl started down my stairs, one hand carefully on the guide rail. She was adorable, maybe seven years old, her blond hair still baby-fine and straight, clipped neatly at her shoulders and held back with a hairband. She wore a plain little corduroy dress with a white blouse and shiny black shoes, and her coat was a puffy down-filled jacket that seemed like a bit of overkill for the weather.

I looked from the kid to Kincaid and said, "You can't be bringing a child into this."

"Sure I can," Kincaid said.

"What, couldn't you find a babysitter?"

The child stopped a couple of steps up so that her face was even with my own and said, her voice serious and marked with a faint British accent, "He is my baby-sitter."

I felt my eyebrows shoot up.

"Or more accurately my driver," she said. "Are you going to let us in? I prefer not to remain outdoors."

I stared at the kid for a second. "Aren't you a little short for a librarian?"

"I am not a librarian," the child said. "I am the Archive."