I caught a man looking at me from a table nearby. I suppose I should’ve been flattered.

“So how’s work?” I finally said to say something.

“I’m thinking of leaving the practice,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I’d like to spend more time studying Lyc-V,” he said. “I think it’s fascinating, particularly how the very structure of bones changes under the influence of magic. To develop that ability further would mean incredible advances for reconstructive surgery. No invasive procedures, no implants, no recovery, just the elimination of imperfections through will.”

I smiled at him. Perhaps one day I’d introduce him to Saiman.

The waiter arrived with the wine menu. Crest ordered and then rattled on about the fascinating nature of Lyc-V, going into more technical detail than my limited comprehension could handle. I dutifully watched him, wondering why Olathe kidnapped the women. Something about it just didn’t add up.

Crest fell silent and I blinked, turning off the autopilot.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

No. “No, please go ahead.”

“Do I bore you?”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I shrugged. “Please don’t be. You’re being yourself and I’m being myself. For you shapechangers are a new and interesting frontier. For me, they are a part of my work. They are violent, often cruel, paranoid, and extremely territorial. When I see one, I see a possible adversary. You get excited because they can change their bone structure, while I get pissed off because their jaws don’t fit together well in midform and they drip spit on the floor. And they smell awful when they’re wet.”

Crest looked at me.

“Besides, I lack the medical expertise to understand most of what you’ve said during the last five minutes. I hate feeling like a layman. It’s too much for my fragile ego.”

He reached over and touched my hand. His skin was warm and dry and for some unknown reason his touch comforted me.

“I’m shutting up,” he promised solemnly.

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else, though. Books, music, something not related to work.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.”

The world skipped a beat as the magic crashed. The conversation at the tables died for a moment and resumed as if nothing happened. Our dinner arrived. My salad consisted of leaves of lettuce, tastefully arranged to frame the thin slivers of orange, and a scattering of other greenery. I poked at the lettuce with a fork. For some reason I wasn’t hungry.

“How’s your salad?” he asked.

I speared a slice of orange with my fork and ate it. “Good.”