The headmage’s fingers curled over her shoulder, the golden claw rings he had worn over his gloves in place of true nails digging faintly into her uniform, cold even through the layers of fabric; her hand froze in her lap, useless as any prosthetic.

“Incidentally, Ramshackle Dorm’s food expenses have been mounting as of late, as I recall. You must be terribly strapped for cash…”

Sylvea could feel the man bend slightly behind the padded backrest, his velvety voice coiling around her ear. She had half a mind to slap him away.

“And alas, I’m so preoccupied researching a way to return SOMEONE to their home, I have so little time to address other problems…”

Do tell me your findings, sir. For a moment she allowed the spiteful thought to shine true in her mind, lips curling slightly in distaste as she bowed her head and reached forward, fingers grasping the ceramic handle of her half-finished cup of tea. Perhaps then your talk of favors will sound less ridiculous.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, Dire Crowley’s hand retracted itself, and she heard his footsteps click against the creaky wooden boards as he moved to sit back down on the seat opposite her and Jack. She gave one last long sip of her tea, the fine taste falling limp against her tongue. Chewing on ash would’ve had the same effect.

“Oh, but don’t worry about me, really.” She could hear the resigned smile in the Headmage’s voice, kindly as any father might to his stubborn, wayward daughter who does not know any better. She did not open her eyes to see it. “I am, as you know, a philanthropist to the core.”

Jack said something at that, and in a world where she had a choice perhaps she would’ve nodded her head alongside him. But in this one she merely placed the empty cup back down on the coffee table with a soft clink, folding her hands primly in her lap atop the wrinkly folds of her grey skirt.

“You drive a hard bargain, Headmage,” she smiled, meeting the man’s gaze through the sockets of his mask, “I’ll do what I can.”