He told her just how low he’d sunk. He told her about Alice, and their life together, and what they had done, and how she had died. When he revealed the specifics of Alice’s fate, Emily’s smile vanished, and she took a shaky slurp from her martini glass. After all, Charlie had become a niffin, too. The irony was quite comprehensively hideous. But she didn’t ask him to stop.

When he was finished, he expected her to hate him as much as he hated himself. As much, perhaps, as Quentin suspected she hated herself. But instead her eyes were brimming over with kindness.

“Oh, Quentin,” she said, and she actually took his hand across the table. “You can’t blame yourself, truly you can’t.” Her stiff, narrow face shone with pity. “You need to see that all this evil, all this sadness, it all comes from magic. It’s where all your trouble began. Nobody can be touched by that much power without being corrupted. It’s what corrupted me, Quentin, before I gave it up. It’s the hardest thing I ever did.”

Her voice softened.

“It’s what killed Charlie,” she said quietly. “And it killed your poor Alice, too. Sooner or later magic always leads to evil. Once you see that then you’ll see how to forgive yourself. It will get easier. I promise you.”

Her pity was like a salve for his raw, chafed heart, and he wanted to accept it. She was offering it to him, it was right there across the table. All he had to do was reach out for it.

The check arrived, and Quentin charged the astronomical sum to his corporate card. In the restaurant’s foyer they were both so drunk that they had to help each other into their raincoats—it had been pissing rain all day. There was no question of going back to the office. He was in no shape for that, and anyway it was already getting dark. It had been a very long lunch.

Outside under the awning they hesitated. For a moment Emily Greenstreet’s funny, flat mouth came unexpectedly close to his.

“Have dinner with me tonight.” Her gaze was disarmingly direct. “Come to my apartment. I’ll cook for you.”

“Can’t do it tonight,” he said blurrily. “I’m sorry. Next time maybe.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Listen, Quentin. I know you think you’re not ready for this—”

“I know I’m not ready.”

“—but you’ll never be ready. Not until you decide to be.” She squeezed his forearm. “Enough drama, Quentin. Let me help you. It’s not the worst thing in the world, admitting you need help. Is it?”

Her kindness was the most touching thing he’d seen since he left Brakebills. And he hadn’t had sex, good God, since the time he’d slept with Janet. It would be so easy to go with her.