Eight days after I'd arrived, I walked out of the Creighton estate's front gates with a bag I hadn't needed and a Flame Lance I barely recognized.
It was strange how familiar the place had become in a week. The hum of the wards in the walls. The staff who now nodded at me instead of past me. The garden where Rachel had soaked Nero's scroll twice, which I was still choosing not to mention to Nero.
Rachel stood beside me in travel gear that somehow managed to be practical and regal at once. Alastor stood in front of us, arms crossed, his blue eyes doing that quiet reading thing they did.
"You've made your preparations," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, Father."
He sighed, a rare crack in his composure. "I trust you, Rachel. But the world beyond these walls doesn't care what your name is." His gaze moved to me. "And you, Arthur, seem to go looking for the parts of the world that care even less."
"I try," I said.
