It destroyed some cavern of your reverence to watch Augustine punch the Prince Undying on the arm, and to watch the Prince Undying gamely cuff him back. Part of your brain temporarily calcified into atheism. You had not thought it would be like this. From the day the letter arrived in Drearburh, you’d thought that your Lyctoral days would be spent in prayer, training, and the beauty of necromantic mysteries. You did not think any part of it would be spent honestly quite drunk, wearing a piece of material no larger than a towel, and with Ianthe Tridentarius’s fingers idly caressing the hair at the nape of your neck. For a moment, you wondered wildly if you had hit your head quite hard entering the shuttle out of Drearburh, and had hallucinated everything subsequent.

Mercymorn said peevishly: “I always thought Nigella was prettier,” and both men assured her, “You’re not wrong,” “Good choice, et cetera,” until Augustine said gloomily: “Try getting a look-in with Cassy around, though.”

You turned your head and muttered into Ianthe’s ear, knowing your desperation was naked: “When do we leave?”

“The time has not yet come,” she murmured. You looked into her shining brown-flecked eyes and were stricken with panic that the time might never come.

Mercymorn finished off another glass of wine—Teacher removed her wineglass, and then, thoughtfully, removed the bottle closest to her, and then removed any bottles of wine within her reach—and she placed her tranquil oval of a face into her slender hand, and she said: “You’re wrong, Augustine. You still hate Cristabel … you hated my cavalier long before what she did.”

He was arrested in the process of refilling his glass. You had no idea how anyone could drink as much as the Saint of Patience had and remain coherent. He put down the bottle and said, “Do I?”

God said, “This isn’t a conversation either of you have to have. Not now. Especially not after five glasses of wine.”

“Lot more than five. No. No, it’s fine. Judge ye not. Let her dig him up again,” said Augustine, though now he sounded a trifle unsteady. “Do I, Mercy? God help me, I don’t think I do.”

She said, “Look me in the eyes and say that.”

Augustine stood, with nary a tremble. He wiped his mouth carefully with his handkerchief again, and although God had half-risen too, again—put his hand on Augustine’s arm, and looked at him, and whatever passed between them was too swift to classify—he moved next to the Saint of Joy’s chair. He crouched a little so that they were eye to eye—in the candlelight you could not tell whether you thought they looked appallingly old, or no older than Ianthe—and he said, “Joy, what’s done is done. They’re dead. The crime is punished. I don’t hate Cristabel.”