In a perfect world, Augustine’s cool would have warmed Mercymorn toward you. She did cultivate a distaste for Ianthe, but did not become any less shrill, acid, or contemptuous in your direction. Naturally a large portion of your education fell to her—with Augustine busy, there was nobody left for you—but she more than once expressed her view that Augustine had nabbed the “working baby” on purpose, and left her the dregs to spite her.

Once when you were tired you had said to Ianthe, “Doesn’t it chafe, carrying on after him the way you do? Picking up his things? Smiling with your teeth showing?”

“My teeth are extremely white and I brush assiduously, so I see no problem showing them off,” said Ianthe.

“Lighting his cigarettes and cooing, ‘That is so fascinating, elder brother.’”

“I intend to take on the habit myself,” said Ianthe. “Cigarettes! On a space station! What a power play.”

“Do you ever wake up and think to yourself, When did the Princess of Ida become this grovelling slime?”

She smiled at you, with those teeth so brushed and white. The eyes that had once been chill lavender were now blue, pattered with brown flecks, and as mocking as ever. “Most days,” she said. “Oh, for crying out loud, Harrowhark, smiling and listening to some quite interesting stories about his ten thousand years is no hardship. Especially not when it may make him think twice about leaving me to be eaten by a Resurrection Beast. Carrying off Corona’s con for over twenty years taught me that shame is a privilege. We’re puppies, you and I: I with my lame paw, and you with three legs missing insisting you can make it on your own. And God help us both, because we are surrounded by wolves.”

Ianthe ended this startling speech by chucking you under the chin. You were too outraged and befuddled to dodge her. She said, “Show your endearing side, Harry. It may save your life.”

Spirit magician.

Another terrible understatement. Augustine was a spirit magician like the Mithraeum was a box with some bones. You did not begrudge him this expertise. Spirit magic had never been your forte. He had a Lyctor’s power, and a myriad’s refinement: he taught to a curriculum you had barely known existed. The dead Harrowhark of your letters had told you to take instruction: and so did God, shepherding you and Ianthe both to take lessons from the Mithraeum’s resident expert in Resurrection Beasts.

“It’s not my primary wheelhouse,” Augustine explained. “But since our last expert vanished into a large intestine, unravelled by a troop of ghosts, I’m the last spirit adept standing.”

“He’s being modest,” said God. “The barriers between us and the River are Augustine’s. He could plunge half a city into it, if he wanted.”