The interior of the shop was subtly different from how Brutus remembered it. The great forges still stood solidly, a banked fire gleaming red under the grates. The benches and tool racks were new looking, though the smell of oil and metal was like stepping back into old memories. Brutus breathed in, smiling to himself and relaxing a fraction.

Tabbic noticed the change as he crossed to the heavy iron kettle on the edge of the forge. “Are you thinking of the riots? Those were black days. We were lucky to get out with our lives. I’m not sure I ever thanked you for helping us.”

“You did,” Brutus replied.

“Draw up a seat, lad, while you taste this. Used to be, it was my winter brew, but it warms a summer evening just as well.” Tabbic ladled steaming red liquid into a metal cup, wrapping it in cloth before handing it over.

Brutus took it gingerly, breathing in the fumes. “What’s in it?” he asked.

Tabbic shrugged. “A few things from the markets. To be honest, it depends on what I have to hand. It tastes different every year, Alexandria says.”

Brutus nodded, accepting the old man’s lead. “I saw her,” he said.

“You would have done. Her husband came to bring her home just before I saw you,” Tabbic replied. “She’s found a good man, there.”

Brutus almost smiled at the old jeweler’s transparent worry. “I’m not back to pick at old scabs. All I want is to get as far away as I can. I’ll not trouble her.”

He hadn’t noticed the tension in Tabbic’s shoulders until the old man relaxed. They sat in peaceful silence then and Brutus sipped at the mug, wincing slightly. “This is sour,” he grumbled.

Tabbic shrugged. “I wouldn’t waste good wine on a hot cup. You’ll find it has a bite, though.”

It was true that the bitter warmth was easing some of the tightness in his chest. For a moment, Brutus resisted, unwilling to let go of even a part of his anger. Rage was something he had always enjoyed as it flooded him. It brought a kind of freedom from responsibility and to feel it ebb was to face the return of regret. Then he sighed and offered his cup for Tabbic to refill.

“You don’t have the face of a man who came home this morning,” Tabbic observed, almost to himself.

Brutus looked at him, feeling weary. “Maybe I have,” he said.

Tabbic slurped the dregs of his own cup, belching softly into a fist as he considered the response. “You weren’t the sort to wrap yourself in knots the last time I saw you. What’s changed?”

“Has it occurred to you that I might not want to talk about it?” Brutus growled.