# Chapter 13: Three Threads

The guild's front office at 14 Greystone Lane had the settled hush of a Saturday morning — quieter traffic on the street outside, the receptionist reading something behind her desk instead of performing her usual eight-week-waiting-list theatre. She looked up when I walked in, nodded once, and went back to her book.

"Ledger left something for you," she said, without looking up again. "On his desk. He said you'd know what it meant."

I did. The folio on Ledger's desk — he wasn't in, because Ledger kept hours that suggested he didn't actually exist on weekends — contained a single document. Formal Compact correspondence, addressed to the Guild of Necessary Services, stamped with the dual-seal sigil that meant it had gone through at least two levels of institutional review before dispatch.

The language was beautiful in its way. Bureaucratic art. The Floundry curse had been classified as unbreakable by two licensed practitioners and confirmed by Compact review. Continued unauthorized interference with a classified working may constitute a regulatory violation under Section 14(c) of the Arcane Practice Oversight Act. The Compact valued its relationship with the Guild of Necessary Services and trusted that this matter could be resolved through professional channels.

Translation: stop, or we'll make your life difficult through paperwork.

Someone had clipped a note to the bottom of the page. Ledger's handwriting — small, precise, economical. *Guild position: "Never burn a client who paid in good faith." The Compact's classification doesn't override a guild contract. Back your case, back your client. — L*

The guild had teeth. Small teeth, compared to the Compact's institutional jaw, but sharp. And they'd chosen to bare them rather than roll over, which told me more about the guild's internal politics than six months of observation had. The Floundry case wasn't just my problem — it was now a jurisdictional question, and jurisdictional questions meant the guild's autonomy was on the line. They weren't backing me out of sentiment. They were backing the principle, and I happened to be standing under it.

I pocketed the correspondence and walked out into the morning.

He was waiting two doors down.

Not in front of the guild — that would have been a provocation, and this man didn't provoke. He suggested. He was leaning against the stone façade of a law scrivener's office, arms folded, watching the street with the practiced casualness of someone who wanted to be seen being casual. Late thirties or early forties. Dark hair slicked back with the kind of discipline that extended to every visible surface — the tailored doublet in charcoal, the silver threadwork subtle enough to register as quality without announcing it, the boots that had been polished recently enough to still hold the shine. A leather cuff on his left wrist bore an inscribed sigil — Compact. The inscription had depth. Multiple layers.

(*The cuff's runic work has at least three channel depths. Decorative sigils don't need three depths. Filed.*)

"Phelan." He pushed off the wall with an easy motion, extending his hand as if we'd met before. The first-name familiarity was calculated — not aggressive, not presumptuous. Just confident. The kind of social shortcut that worked on most people because refusing it made you look like the difficult one.

I shook his hand. Brief. Professional. His grip was calibrated too — firm enough to register competence, not so firm it was a contest.

"Cassius Rykhard. Cass." He released the handshake and fell into step beside me as naturally as if we'd been walking together all morning. "I understand you've taken on the Floundry matter."

"I've taken on a guild assignment."

"Of course. Through proper channels. Everything above board — I'm not questioning that." He smiled, and the smile was good. Warm without being ingratiating. The kind of expression that made the person receiving it feel included rather than managed. "The Compact appreciates thoroughness, Phelan. We also appreciate knowing when a problem has been thoroughly solved. This one has. The classification is sound. Two licensed practitioners confirmed it independently. The review was — well, it was thorough."

"Eleven days."

The smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind the eyes. A recalculation. He'd clocked that I knew the timeline.

"Efficient," he said. "The evidence was clear."

"I'm sure it was."

We walked in silence for a few steps. He was good — he let the silence develop rather than rushing to fill it, which was the mark of someone who understood that most people talked themselves into concessions when the quiet got uncomfortable. I recognised the technique because I used it. Being on the receiving end was irritating in a way that had nothing to do with discomfort and everything to do with professional recognition.

"I'll be direct," Cass said, as if the previous minute hadn't been a masterclass in indirect approach. "The Compact values resolution. It also values — let's call it institutional clarity. Cases that are classified should stay classified. It avoids confusion. Protects the public. Maintains the framework that all practitioners benefit from." A pause, timed. "Including guild practitioners."

"That sounds like a regulatory lecture."

"It's a professional observation between colleagues." He stopped walking. We were in a small courtyard between Greystone Lane and the next street — public enough to be unremarkable, private enough for the conversation to land. "I'm authorised to offer you a professional courtesy. A reassignment fee. The Compact recognises that walking away from an engaged case has costs — financial, reputational. They're prepared to compensate for that. Generously."

He named the number.

"Twenty-five gold."

(*Twenty-five gold. Two thousand five hundred silvers. The house is thirteen hundred. The house is — thirteen hundred for materials, permits, warding, labour. That leaves twelve hundred. Mere's rent — five silvers a month for something real, not a shack. Sixty silvers a year. Deposit, first and last — fifteen. Income bridge while she rebuilds Thresholds' clientele somewhere new. Six months? Call it thirty silvers. The shop. Her own shop. No deed in someone else's name, no household contribution, no schedule, no leash. There's enough. For the house and for Mere. Both goals. Both solved. Nearly double Leon's crystal windfall. Twelve hundred silvers and her own front door—*)

The noise did that. Ran the numbers before I could stop it, laid out the entire architecture of a life I hadn't built yet, furnished the rooms and calculated the monthly expenses and put Mere behind a counter that belonged to her. All in the space between his words and my response. Involuntary. The brain doing what it does — finding the optimal path through a system, regardless of whether I wanted to see it.

Twenty-five gold. And I'd said no to the case fee being generous at a hundred and fifty silvers.

"No."

One word. The refusal came out flat, undramatic, the way you'd decline a second cup of tea. All the weight was behind it — in the noise, in the calculation that had just mapped out everything I could have bought — and none of it showed. I'd been cold-reading people long enough to know what a clean refusal looked like from the outside: unremarkable. The kind of "no" that didn't invite negotiation because it didn't acknowledge there was anything to negotiate.

Cass watched me. He didn't look surprised, which was itself informative. He'd come prepared for a refusal, which meant the offer was always a test as much as a transaction.

(*Two reasons. Neither is moral outrage — I don't have the energy for outrage and it wouldn't change the math. One: guild code. Never burn a client who paid in good faith. The Floundrys paid in good faith. I didn't adopt that rule because the guild told me to — I found a guild whose rule matched the one I already had. Two: it's a test. A mid-level official doesn't walk around with twenty-five gold in his pocket. That's institutional money. Pre-approved. Budgeted. Accepting makes me a known quantity — someone with a price tag the Compact can pull whenever they need a lever. I'm refusing the leash, not the money. I'm nobody's tool. I'm for myself and my code.*)

"The offer stands," Cass said. No pressure in his voice. No disappointment. Just the smooth recalibration of someone filing a result and moving to the next contingency. "If you change your mind."

"I won't."

"People rarely know that about themselves." The smile returned — warmer this time, almost genuine. "But I appreciate the certainty. It's — refreshing. Most people negotiate."

"Most people haven't done the math."

Something flickered in his expression — recognition, maybe. Or the professional annoyance of someone who'd been read accurately and knew it. He extended his hand again, and I took it, and the handshake was exactly the same as the first one. Calibrated. Controlled.

"Good luck with the case, Phelan." He said it like he meant it, which was the worst part. "Genuinely."

He walked away. No backward glance, no lingering presence. Clean exit. The kind of departure that left the conversation sitting in your head because there was nothing to push against.

Twenty-five gold coins.

The number sat in my skull like a splinter. And underneath it, the observation that a mid-level Compact official shouldn't have twenty-five gold to offer. That was institutional money — serious, pre-approved, signed off by someone with budget authority. You don't allocate twenty-five gold to close a case that's genuinely impossible. You allocate it to make sure someone stops looking at a case that isn't.

I filed that alongside the eleven-day classification and the suspiciously narrow methodology of the licensed curse-breakers and the Compact's systematic acquisition of ghostveil moss growth sites. The lattice was forming. Not a magical one — institutional. But I read them the same way.

* * *

The guild's planning library occupied a room on the second floor of 14 Greystone Lane that had clearly been designed for a different purpose — the shelving was too deep for the narrow volumes it now held, and the work tables had been fitted with leather tops that didn't quite match the original woodwork. Reference maps on the walls, herb charts in standing frames, a mineral identification board near the window. The room had the quality of a space that had accumulated usefulness over decades without anyone designing it.

I arrived at tenth bell. Mere and Devod were already there.

They were on opposite sides of the largest table, which was covered in a spread of regional maps and what looked like mine survey documents. Not sitting — standing. Both of them, as if the act of sitting would commit to something neither was ready for. Mere had a herb reference chart open in front of her, and she was cross-referencing something with a notation she'd brought on a separate sheet. Devod was bent over a map of the southeastern roads, tracing a route with his finger, muttering to himself.

When I walked in, Mere looked up first. Her expression was the same one she wore when a customer entered Thresholds during a complex shelving reorganisation — professional tolerance of an interruption she'd been expecting.

"This is my father," she said. Flat. Factual. Delivered like an identification of a specimen in a catalogue. "He has ideas. Most of them are wrong. You should listen anyway."

Devod looked up from his map. His expression went through three things in the space of a second — surprise at the introduction, a wince at the assessment, and then something careful and controlled that settled into practiced acceptance. He nodded to me. His hands were moving again, tapping the edge of the map.

"She's not wrong," he said.

Mere returned to her reference chart without acknowledging the response. The indifference was worse than anger would have been — anger at least implied the relationship mattered enough to feel something about. This was clerical. A fact stated, a colleague introduced, work to do.

I pulled up a chair. Started unpacking the survey documents Ledger had included with the Compact correspondence — mine survey records, geological assessments, and an environmental report from the last season Velken's Drift had been operational. The planning library had earned its name; the guild kept reference material on an improbable range of locations, and someone — Ledger, probably — had pulled the Velken's Drift file in advance.

"The mine's access road is still passable," Devod said, pointing at his map. "I used to drive the supply route — took the southeastern fork past the canal junction, then the hill road. Three hours by carriage, maybe less if the autumn rains haven't washed out the switchbacks." His finger traced the route, stopped, tapped. "There's a secondary approach from the south, but the bridge at Kelmer's Crossing hasn't been maintained since the mine closed. I wouldn't trust it with a loaded carriage."

"The upper levels," I said. "You know the layout?"

"The first two galleries, yes. Delivered to the foreman's station on the main drift — that's the first gallery. Wide corridor, timber-reinforced, good airflow. The second gallery branches south and east. South branch is where they stored processed ore. East branch goes deeper." He paused, eyes unfocused in the way people get when they're pulling spatial memory out of storage. "The third gallery is where it gets unreliable. Supports were already deteriorating when I was last there, and that was — fifteen years ago? Sixteen? The lower levels flooded when they stopped running the pumps."

"Ghostveil moss colonises environments saturated with decayed magical residue," Mere said, not looking up from her chart. "Old mine shafts, collapsed wardlines, places where magical energy was extracted and the residual field has had decades to break down and concentrate. The deeper the saturation, the more viable the growth conditions." She turned a page. "It won't be in the upper galleries. Too much airflow, too little accumulated residue. If it's there at all, it'll be at the boundary between the second and third levels — deep enough for concentration, shallow enough to avoid the flooding."

"That's the east branch," Devod said. "Second gallery, east fork. The air gets thicker down there — not dangerous in the upper sections, but you can feel the residue. Compass enchantments stopped working below the third gallery, but the east fork of the second level was already borderline. I remember the foreman's enchanted lantern flickering."

I watched them work. The professional framework held — maps and logistics and route planning provided a structure that neither of them would have tolerated without a reason. Mere addressed Devod by his first name when she addressed him at all, which wasn't often. Her exchanges were monosyllabic, factual, stripped of anything that might be mistaken for warmth. She spoke to the map, or to me, or to the reference chart. When she spoke to Devod directly, it was the tone she used with clients at Thresholds who'd asked a question she'd already answered on the signage.

(*His word choices are too careful. "My daughter" becomes "Mere" becomes just the pronoun — he's calibrating what he's allowed to call her, testing the boundaries in real time. His eyes track her when she's looking at the chart. Not staring — tracking. The way you watch someone you've been watching from a distance for twelve years who is suddenly close enough to touch. The practiced casualness when she glances his way — he rearranges his posture, adjusts to look absorbed in the map, two seconds too late for it to be natural. The guilt is in the overcorrection. He's trying so hard to seem comfortable that the effort itself is a confession.*)

Mere's pattern recognition was excellent. Probably better than mine in some domains. But she wasn't looking for this pattern — she'd already classified Devod twelve years ago and filed the conclusion. Father who left. Case closed. Her observations about his environment, delivered to me at Thresholds with the clinical precision of a twelve-year-old's last assessment, were accurate data serving an inaccurate conclusion. She wasn't re-examining. She'd decided, and Mere's decisions, once made, had the permanence of geological formations.

(*She's punishing the wrong crime. She thinks he chose to leave. He chose to stay close at the cost of staying away. She's punishing abandonment, and what actually happened was a hostage negotiation where she was the hostage and nobody told her. The distance she's performing right now — the monosyllables, the first-name address, the indifference that's worse than anger — is built on Charlette's architecture. Mere didn't design this estrangement. She inherited it, and she doesn't know that either.*)

Mere caught me watching.

One look. Sharp and direct and carrying the particular weight of someone whose pattern recognition has just identified a pattern she doesn't want examined. Her eyes said *don't* with the clarity of a spoken word, and I looked away. She read my interest as curiosity about her family situation — which it was, in a way, but not the way she thought. She wasn't looking for the deeper truth. She didn't know there was a deeper truth to look for.

I carried the secret forward. Devod glanced at me once during the exchange — a flicker of awareness that I'd been watching, and a silent acknowledgment that I hadn't said anything. The weight of the knowledge settled between us like a third person in the room that only two of us could see.

"Team roles," I said, because the professional framework was all that was keeping this functional. "I handle magic. Combat if we need it, and navigation in high-residue areas. I have an eye for these things. The mine's magical background will make ambient detection unreliable, so I'll need to be careful about what's residual and what's active."

"I handle the moss," Mere said. "Identification, harvesting, preparation. The dampening properties are the entire point — incorrect cuts, direct light during drying, substrate contamination will destroy them. This isn't something you can improvise."

"Basic navigation is mine," Devod said. "I know the upper levels. Route options, structural assessment, which supports are load-bearing, which corridors are stable enough for three people and equipment." He was tapping the map again, energy returning. "Now, I've been thinking about access points. The main entrance is the obvious choice, but there's a ventilation shaft on the eastern slope that—"

"The main entrance," Mere said.

"Right. The main entrance. But I also think we should consider—"

"The main entrance, Devod."

He nodded, redirecting without visible frustration. The ideas were already backing up behind his eyes — I could see them queuing, the scattered energy that threw everything at the wall on the assumption that something would stick. Most of his suggestions about route planning were variations on "what if we went the complicated way instead," and Mere dismissed them with the efficiency of someone who'd been filtering his ideas since childhood. But his structural knowledge — which corridors connected where, which supports had been replaced versus original, where the air quality shifted — was genuinely useful. The signal in the noise, same as I'd recognised at Millford Street.

"Timeline," I said. "Ned's condition isn't waiting. The degradation is accelerating — motor control, organ function. The herb window is the first step in the solution chain, and until we have the moss, nothing else moves forward."

"Tomorrow," Mere said.

Devod looked at her. I looked at her. She was studying the map with the expression of someone who'd run the logistics three steps ahead of the conversation.

"The weather holds through midweek. The road conditions are optimal now — another week of autumn rain and the switchbacks become unreliable. Departure at fifth bell, three hours to the mine, four to six hours on site depending on moss depth and concentration, three hours back. We're home by early evening." She looked up. "Is there a reason to wait?"

There wasn't. Ned's window was narrowing, and every day we delayed was a day the curse ate further into him. The mine wasn't going to get safer or more accessible with time.

"Tomorrow," I confirmed. "Fifth bell. I'll arrange supplies this afternoon."

The planning continued for another twenty minutes — equipment lists, contingency routes, communication signals if we got separated underground. Mere and Devod operated in the same space with the careful choreography of two people who had learned to orbit without touching. She anticipated his useful contributions and cut off his tangential ones. He offered information with the measured enthusiasm of someone who'd been told most of his ideas were wrong and had decided that the ratio of good vs bad was worth the cost.

Neither of them mentioned anything personal. The expedition was the boundary, and neither crossed it. But the room was full of things unsaid, and I was the only one who knew what all of them were.

* * *

Carter's shop was closed for regular business Saturday afternoons, the sign in the window turned to the side that said *By Appointment* — but the door was unlocked. Carter treated Saturdays as uninterrupted workshop time.

I found him at his inscription workstation in the back room, hunched over something small and metallic, a magnifying loupe fitted over his right eye. The forge wasn't running — this was fine detail work, the inscription stage that came after the metalwork was finished. The air smelled like polishing compound and the sharp burnt-metal scent of fresh channelling.

"Supply run," I said from the doorway. "Mine expedition. Three people, one day, underground."

Carter didn't look up. His hands moved with the steady precision of someone who'd taught his muscles to work at a finer resolution than his conscious attention required. "How deep?"

"Second gallery level. Possibly into the boundary with the third. Old magical ore mine — Velken's Drift."

"Residual field?"

"High enough to interfere with compass enchantments in the lower sections."

He grunted. The loupe came off, and he set down whatever he'd been working on — I couldn't see it clearly from the doorway, something ring-sized — and stood, cracking his back with the ease of a man who'd spent too many hours bent over a workbench. "Ceramic light rods — the enchanted ones, not the alchemical. Alchemical react badly to ambient magical residue. How many?"

"Three. One per person."

"Air quality indicators." He was already moving through the shop, pulling items from shelves with the photographic recall that made his inventory system unnecessary. "Canary strips — they change colour if the oxygen drops below safe levels. Not magical. Chemical reaction. Works in high-residue environments where enchanted monitors go haywire."

"Good."

"Botanical collection kit — I'm guessing the herbalist in your team has opinions about equipment."

"She does."

"I'll pack the standard set and let her swap out what she doesn't like. Rope. Fifty feet, treated for damp. Medical kit — the compact one, not the field surgery version." He paused, arm deep in a supply cabinet. "Anything trying to kill you down there, or is this a collection trip?"

"Hopefully collection. The mine's been closed fifteen to twenty years. But the magical residue means the local wildlife might be — adapted."

"Combat magic available?"

"Mine."

He emerged from the cabinet with an armload of supplies, set them on the counter, and looked at me for the first time since I'd walked in. His expression was the one I'd learned to read as *I've been waiting to show you something and the wait is over.*

"Try this on," he said.

He walked back to the inscription workstation and picked up the ring-sized object he'd been working on when I arrived. Held it out on his palm — a wide band of dark metal, matte-finished, with inscribed channels running along the outer surface in a pattern I recognised immediately. Focusing channels. Three depths, staggered.

"Carter."

"Try it on."

I took it. The weight was right — heavier than jewellery, lighter than a weapon component. The inscription work was precise, detailed at a level that must have taken days. The channels ran in a spiral pattern along the band, converging at a focal point on the outer face — a small flat surface where the three channel depths met. The same thermal distribution principle I'd identified in his throwing knives. Staggered depths to prevent resonance buildup. Convergence architecture designed to focus, not just transmit.

I slid it onto my right index finger. The fit was exact.

"Fire it," Carter said. "Small. Just a thread."

I pulled a whisper of fire magic — the smallest weave I could manage, something I'd practiced a thousand times as a teenager. A thin line of heat extending from my hand, controlled, directional.

The ring caught it.

The weave extended — not from my hand, but from the focal point on the ring's outer surface. The secondary anchor point changed everything. Instead of the 5-6 feet of controlled range I'd been managing since the Barrows — and managing badly, the rust still showing — the weave stretched outward in a smooth, controlled arc. Fifteen feet. The fire moved like a whip-crack extension of my intent, curving through the air with a precision I hadn't felt since I was eighteen and training every day.

I cut the weave. Stared at the ring.

(*The engineering. Three channel depths — same principle as the knives, thermal distribution staggered to prevent convergence fatigue. But the application is different. The knife channels carry the working during flight, amplify on impact. This carries the working outward from a fixed anchor point — the ring becomes the origin, not the hand. The hand generates, the ring projects. The effective range isn't additive — it's multiplicative. The focusing architecture doesn't just extend the weave, it refines the output. The convergence point acts as a secondary calibration. Clean output from dirty input. He saw my combat magic in the Barrows debrief — no. He saw the neck wound. The scar. He saw the healing mark from the crawler that got inside my guard because my fire range was five feet and the creature was at six, and he went to his workstation and started building this. He didn't say anything then. Carter doesn't say things. Carter builds them.*)

The noise went quiet for a second — not the emotional quiet of Mere's declarations or the analytical quiet of hyperfocus. The craftsman's quiet. The silence of seeing something well-made and understanding exactly how it worked and why it was beautiful.

"The knives were the proof of concept," Carter said. He'd been watching with the controlled satisfaction of someone whose work had just proven itself. "Staggered channel depths for thermal distribution — your fix. The efficiency improvement held. I started thinking about what else you could do with a secondary anchor point. A ring seemed obvious — it stays with you, it's on the projection hand, and the focusing architecture is compact enough to inscribe at useful depth."

"You built this from my knife fix?"

"Your fix gave me the depth-staggering principle. The application is mine." He said it without ego — a fact about who contributed what. "The ring extends controlled fire-weave range from your current — what, five, six feet? — to fifteen, maybe twenty if you push it. The weave projects from the focal point instead of directly from the hand. Secondary anchor. You generate the working, the ring refines and extends it."

"How much?"

"Your store credit covers most of this." Carter said it the way he said everything — factual, no ceremony. "I'm charging materials. The silver in the band, the inscription compounds. Time was mine. Technique is yours." A pause. "Twelve silvers out of pocket."

(*Twelve silvers. Six months' rent. Three months of the shack, or a focusing ring that turns five feet of rusty fire magic into fifteen feet of controlled combat range. The Barrows nearly killed me at five feet. The crawler got inside my guard because my range was shorter than its reach, and Carter saw the scar and built this instead of mentioning it. The mine will be confined spaces, unknown threats, two people who can't defend themselves magically. New line of work, new math. The neck wound healed but the lesson didn't.*)

"I'll take it."

Carter nodded. No ceremony. I counted twelve silvers out of the purse I'd brought for the supply run, and the lockbox at home got lighter by an amount that would have kept me fed and housed for two months.

Different math now. The man who'd started counting silvers in the first week of this job had been saving for a house. This man was spending money on not dying. The distinction wasn't comfortable, but it was accurate.

Carter packed the mine supplies with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything — ceramic light rods secured in padded sleeves, canary strips in a sealed pouch, rope coiled and tied, medical kit compact and complete. The botanical collection kit went into a separate satchel. He added two extra canary strips without charging for them.

"The ring," he said, as I was gathering the supplies. "Don't push the range past twenty feet until you've had a chance to practice. The focusing channels have a tolerance threshold — exceed it and the convergence destabilises. You'll feel it as a vibration in the metal. If it vibrates, pull back."

"Understood."

"And Phelan." He paused, one hand on the counter. "Come back from the mine."

"That's the plan."

"I'm serious. I don't build custom inscription work for dead men. Bad for the portfolio."

It was the closest Carter came to saying the thing he actually meant, which was that the ring wasn't a transaction. It was the throwing-knife fix repaid in kind — competence recognising competence, expressed through craft because neither of us was built for the other version.

"I'll come back," I said.

* * *

I set the pack by the shack door and sat at the table. The ring sat on my right index finger — new weight, twelve silvers lighter in the lockbox. The metal was warm against my skin, adjusting to a temperature it would hold from now on.

The house plans were still pinned to the wall. Same kitchen facing east in every version.

(*Three threads, none resolved. The bribe — twenty-five gold, two thousand five hundred silvers, the house and Mere's freedom and everything I've been counting toward since the first week, and I said no. The number is still sitting there. It's going to sit there for a while. Mere and Devod — in the same room for the first time in twelve years, working the same problem, separated by a table and a lie that only I know is a lie. She's punishing him for a crime he didn't commit, and he's accepting the punishment because the alternative is telling her the truth about her mother, and neither of them is ready for that conversation. And tomorrow — the mine. Three people going underground, one of whom hates another, to find a rare moss that might save a dying man from a curse someone paid twenty-five gold to keep unbreakable.*)

Different man than the one who'd started this job with twelve coppers and a shaved half-silver and a dream about a house that faced east. That man saved. This man spent twelve silvers on survival and said no to twenty-five gold on principle, and both decisions made sense and neither of them brought the house closer.

More moving pieces than I was comfortable with. The Compact's institutional pressure, calibrated and professional and backed by someone with budget authority. Mere and Devod, orbiting each other in a room full of things unsaid, with me carrying the one piece of information that could change everything and no clear idea when or how to use it. The mine, tomorrow, with its flooded lower levels and its decayed magical residue and whatever had been living in there for fifteen years adapting to an environment saturated with broken magic.

And the one that bothered me most wasn't the curse.

I would've liked an hour with Leon. He'd have caught something I was missing — he always did, some throwaway comment that wouldn't mean anything until it connected with something else three hours later. But it was late, fifth bell came early, and a man going underground on too little sleep was a man who stayed underground.
