“Thanks,” he said again. When the summer air hit him, tears of relief prickled unexpectedly at the corners of his eyes. He blinked and turned away, but the woman caught it.

“It never gets old, does it?”

“No,” he said. “It really doesn’t.”

—

Quentin went the long way around, bypassing the Maze—it would have been redrawn ten times over since the last time he knew it—and walked up to the House. The halls were quiet: it was August here, and there were no students to speak of, though if they hadn’t filled the incoming class yet they might still be holding entrance exams. Early afternoon sunlight fell undisturbed on the much-abused carpets in the common rooms. The whole building felt like it was resting and recovering after the catastrophe of the school year.

He didn’t know what to expect from Fogg: the last time they spoke they hadn’t parted on the best possible terms. But Quentin was here, and he was going to make his case. He found the dean in his office going through admissions files.

“Well!” Still groomed and goateed, the older man made a show of surprise. “Come in. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

Fogg smiled, though he didn’t get up. Quentin sat down, cautiously.

“I wasn’t expecting it either,” he said. “But it’s good to be here.”

“That’s always nice to hear. Last time I saw you I believe you had a hedge witch in tow. Tell me, did she get wherever it was she was going?”

She had, though by a long and circuitous route, and Quentin didn’t want to go into detail about it. Instead he inquired after the fortunes of the Brakebills welters team, and Fogg filled him in on that in all the detail he could have wanted and more. Quentin asked after the little metal bird that used to inhabit his office, and Fogg explained that someone had made it their doctoral project to turn it back into flesh and feathers. Fogg took out a cigar and offered one to Quentin; Quentin accepted it; they smoked.

It was all going more smoothly than he’d expected. He’d formed an idea of Fogg as a petty, spiteful tyrant, but now he began to wonder if the dean had changed, or if he’d gotten it wrong in the first place. Maybe Fogg wasn’t as bad as all that. Maybe he, Quentin, had always been a bit too sensitive and defensive around him. When Fogg asked Quentin how he could help him, Quentin told him.