Behind them, Wayne started coughing. He stirred, then groaned and lay still, letting the healing continue. They’d fallen into a spare bedroom. The building was burning, but not too badly. Likely the constables would soon be called.

Nobody has come running, Waxillium thought. The other staff. Are they all right?

Or were they part of it? His mind was still trying to catch up. Tillaume—a man who, as far as he knew, had served his uncle faithfully for decades—had tried to kill him. Three times.

Marasi pulled back. “I think I… I think I’ve composed myself. Thank you.”

He nodded to her, pulling out his handkerchief and handing it over, then knelt by Wayne. The man’s back was crusted with blood and burned skin, but it had been lifted and raised as scabs, new skin forming underneath.

“Is it bad?” Wayne asked, eyes still closed.

“You’ll pull through.”

“I meant the duster.”

“Oh. Well… you’re gonna need a really big patch this time.”

Wayne snorted, then pushed himself up and moved into a sitting position. He winced several times during the process, then finally opened his eyes. Trails of tears were running down the side of his face. “I told you,” Wayne said. “Innocent things are always exploding around you, Wax.”

“You kept your fingers this time.”

“Great. I can still strangle you.”

Waxillium smiled, resting his hand on his friend’s arm. “Thanks.”

Wayne nodded. “I apologize for havin’ to fall on you two.”

“I’ll forgive you, under the circumstances.” Waxillium glanced at Marasi. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, hunched forward, face pale. She saw his scrutiny, then lowered her arms, as if forcing herself to be strong, and began to stand up.

“It’s all right,” Waxillium said. “You can take more time.”

“I’ll be well,” she said, though it was hard to make out the words, as his hearing was still dulled. “I just… I’m unaccustomed to people trying to kill me.”

“You don’t ever get accustomed to it,” Wayne said. “Trust me.” He took a deep breath, then pulled off the remnants of his duster and shirt. Then he turned his burned back to Waxillium. “You mind?”

“You may want to turn away, Marasi,” Waxillium said.

She frowned, but didn’t look away. So he grabbed the burned layer at Wayne’s shoulder and—with a jerk—ripped the skin off his back. It came free in almost a single complete sheet. Wayne grunted.

New skin had formed underneath, pink and fresh, but it couldn’t finish healing properly until the old, stiff, burned layer had been removed. Waxillium tossed it aside.

“Oh, Lord of Harmony,” Marasi said, raising a hand to her mouth. “I think I might be sick.”

“I warned you,” Waxillium said.

“I thought you were referring to his burns. I didn’t realize you were going to tear off his entire back.”

“It feels much better now.” Wayne rolled his arms in his shoulders, now shirtless. He was lean and muscled, and he wore a pair of gold metalmind bracers on his upper arms. His trousers had been singed, but were mostly intact. He reached down, pulling one of his dueling canes out of the wreckage. The other was still at his waist. “Now they owe me a hat and a duster. Where’s the rest of the house staff?”